


My New House Pet

by Sexy_misha_beside_larry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Depressed John, Dom/sub, Kidnapping, M/M, Pet, beatings, dominant jim, submissive Sherlock, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexy_misha_beside_larry/pseuds/Sexy_misha_beside_larry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim kidnaps Sherlock, twice</p>
            </blockquote>





	My New House Pet

**Author's Note:**

> not all of this is mine most of this is written by joinallthefandoms  
> originally titled I guess i can't you the virgin anymore shezza

Sherlock’s heart was struck with agonizing fear, the likes of which he had not felt since  
Reichenbach. Moriarty was alive? It couldn’t be… he had been sure that the man was dead. His  
trepidation only grew as his plane turned around and began its descent. It wasn’t meant to be like  
this. He was supposed to be done! He had left John behind in the hopes that his best friend could  
finally find peace in an otherwise chaotic life. If Sherlock were to return, what would become of  
them? He had long since admitted to himself that he was hopelessly in love with John, and now,  
just as he had come to terms with having to leave his true love, he was forced back. He would  
never escape the pain of this unrequited love, Moriarty had made sure of it. Sherlock knew that  
John had sexual inclinations toward him, but he was also a man that had a wife and child that he  
would never abandon. John was too good, too caring a person to leave his family, regardless of  
how he truly felt about his former flatmate.  
Sherlock allowed just one more tear to fall from his misty gray eye before he forced himself  
back into that room in his mind palace dedicated to stoicism and emotional detachment. He  
couldn’t afford his sentiment to interfere with the job. As soon as he felt the jarring impact of the  
plane’s wheels on the pavement, Sherlock tore off his seatbelt and bolted from his seat. He  
bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet as the stairs were lowered much too slowly. Before  
they had even touched down, he had started down the steps, taking them two at a time. He jumped  
near the bottom, forgoing the last five or six steps. He quickly ran to John and Mary, who were  
clearly shaken by the gif. John, Sherlock deduced, was attempting to remain steady and confident  
for Mary’s sake, but even she could tell that he was nearly trembling with fear. Sherlock was  
about to speak when the sound of tires screeching pierced the silent, tense air and the three of them  
turned their heads in unison. A black van was speeding toward them in a very ominous manner,  
but something told Sherlock that this wasn’t Mycroft…  
The van stopped very abruptly about twenty feet from the trio. Sherlock felt his heart race and  
his stomach grow heavy with incomparable fear. It took every ounce of his willpower not to reach  
over and grasp John’s small hand in his own. Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose in a  
futile attempt to calm down and focus. Every one of his brain cells seemed paralyzed, and even  
though he should have been able to deduce at least something from the van, he could not. He  
winced slightly as the driver’s door opened to reveal one Sebastian Moran. Sherlock looked to  
John in his peripheral vision to find that he was struggling to remain steady. John and Sebastian  
had served together, had actually been best mates, until John had to attend his funeral… Sebastian  
offered a jovial wave as he crossed over to the passenger door and opened it. A shiny, Italian  
leather shoe emerged, stepping onto the pavement with grace and elegance With it came a sharply  
pressed pant leg, one that was all too familiar for Sherlock’s comfort. Inch by inch, Jim Moriarty  
revealed himself. Dressed in his signature navy blue Westwood suit, the consulting criminal  
grinned maniacally as he made his way over to the trio. Moran walked a few paces behind him in  
some sort of perverse reverence. After Moriarty had crossed the threshold of the halfway point,  
three of his men, armed to the teeth with guns, knives, and various other weapons, exited the car  
and followed their boss. Sherlock knew John hadn’t bothered to bring his gun and that Mary was  
similarly unarmed, so they were completely defenseless. Sherlock fought to stop shaking as his  
nemesis approached with his typical swagger.  
“Why, helloooooo,” Moriarty sang in his mocking Irish drawl.  
“Moriarty,” Sherlock had no idea where he had found the strength to remain conscious, let alone speak with an even tone.  
“Aw, Sherly, why so formal? I figured we’d be on a first name basis by now!” Moriarty  
reached up and removed his dark sunglasses with the ease of a man who was enjoying a tea-time  
chat with an old flame. By this time Moriarty’s guards had already established themselves behind  
him, each of them with a gun trained on one of the trio. Sherlock’s mind raced with all of the  
possibilities, all the reasons why Moriarty would have cared to bring personal security… The  
results were disturbing, to say the least.  
“So you too have come back from the dead. How?” Sherlock dared to break the silence.  
“Ah-ah-ah, a good magician never reveals his secrets, Shezza! Now, enough of this  
meaningless chatter. We’ll have time to catch up later.”  
“What is it that you want? You’ve destroyed my reputation, you technically killed me, what  
more could you want?” Sherlock felt John tremble beside him and his heart wept silently for his  
love.  
“I may have broken the image, Sherly, but I never got my chance to play with the man himself.  
I want you, Sherlock, and I will have you,” Moriarty’s voice had taken on a dark note toward the  
end of the sentence that sent chills down Sherlock’s spine.  
“So you’re here to kidnap me. Why the guards, then?” Sherlock already knew the answer, and  
he feared hearing it spoken aloud, but it had to be said.  
“If you don’t come willingly, I shoot the two lovebirds, make you watch, and then have you  
taken anyway,” the consulting criminal grinned as he watched fear flicker in the faces of his prey.  
“However, as I am so very merciful, I’ll allow you the opportunity to surrender yourself willingly,  
and your little friends remain unharmed.”  
Sherlock, for the first time in his life, genuinely wanted to die. He would never forgive himself  
if he was the reason John and Mary died, but every fiber in his being resisted the very idea of  
submitting to this monster. A battle waged in his brain: his pride, or his one true love? The  
physical torture he was sure to suffer at Moriarty’s hand, or the mental torture of knowing that he  
signed his best friend’s death sentence? Sherlock turned to John, who had tears running freely  
down his cheeks. Sherlock tried to speak, but he too was choked up with emotion. How strange.  
“I guess the game is over, John,” Sherlock croaked, a film of tears covering his eyes as well.  
“The game is never over,” John managed a ghost of a smile to reassure his best friend. Perhaps  
it was selfish of him not to argue that Sherlock fight, but he had since learned that the man was  
intransigent enough to sign his own life over to the devil if it meant saving another. He truly was  
the greatest man John had ever known.  
“If we could hurry up with the theatrics, perhaps?” Moriarty’s cold Irish drawl pervaded the  
warm silence like a foreign invader. John and Sherlock barely heard him, unable to tear their eyes  
from the other. Sherlock wanted so badly to confess his feelings for the army doctor, but he  
refrained, as doing so would only add unnecessary guilt to John’s heavy load. Sherlock was sure  
that the man would blame himself needlessly for this, and the very thought broke his heart.  
Sherlock extended his hand, but John wrapped an arm around his neck and brought him down  
into a fierce hug.  
“I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he whispered, the sheer emotion of it all  
breaking Sherlock’s heart.“I love you, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock was barely able to choke out his reply. His love  
was not unrequited, just forbidden as a result of circumstance. He allowed the tears to spill across  
his face as he gave John an imperceptible peck on the cheek, making sure to hide it from the view  
of Moriarty and Mary. Sherlock straightened up, pulled Mary into a quick, barely emotional  
embrace, and turned his back on the pair before he could suffer any more heartache. He  
approached Moriarty with trepidation growing in his chest with every step. The warmth of the  
love he had just shared was slowly dimmed as the darkness of Jim Moriarty loomed over him. He  
stood above the other man, but it seemed as though he was leagues below him.  
“Shall we go?” Sherlock fought and failed to keep his voice steady.  
“Aww, look, he has a heart after all,” Moran cooed condescendingly, making Jim chuckle  
darkly.  
“I think it’s about time I burned it.”  
  
Moran grabbed Sherlock by the back of the neck and shoved him most unceremoniously into  
the trunk of the van. Sherlock let out an impatient sigh as he failed to get comfortable in the small  
trunk. Moriarty did live for his theatrics, but there was plenty of room in the back of the van. Well,  
granted, that would mean actually being in the van with Jim and his men, so… Yeah, okay, the  
trunk was decent enough.  
As they rode along for hours on end, Sherlock’s heart fluttered in his chest, both out of fear and  
love. On one hand, he had just forfeited his life, his very being, to save John (and by extension,  
Mary) On the other, John had revealed that he had feelings for Sherlock as well. In a way,it made  
the whole ordeal much more painful, as now Sherlock had an even more remote chance of ending  
up with John. As his mind strayed from the comfort that was John, it began snaking its way into  
that padded cell with Moriarty. Sherlock dozed off slightly here and there, but was always awoken  
by the sound of Mind-Palace Moriarty’s screaming or his in-depth descriptions of what he would  
do to Sherlock.  
Sherlock Holmes was a man who rarely felt fear, much less trepidation, but here he was, at the  
mercy of a sociopath like himself. No- a psychopath vaguely similar to himself. He hating  
admitting it to himself, but he and Moriarty were utter parallels of one another, and that often  
frightened him. If Sherlock had grown up just a tad more unstable, then perhaps he too would  
have committed murder or built a vast criminal empire. He had always tried to convince himself  
that he was inherently good, but it had been made abundantly clear that at least part of him was  
evil. He was cold, arrogant, incapable of sympathy or empathy. As John had correctly stated, he  
was a machine. Not a killing machine like Moriarty, but a machine all the same. They had the  
same software, but were just programmed differently  
When they finally came to a stop, Sherlock estimated that about five hours had passed. His legs  
were cramped and uncomfortable, his mouth was dry and cracked, and his head was pounding  
and refused to shut up. Sherlock’s fear, which had grown slightly stagnant during his wait, was  
awakened with a passion as he heard the car doors open and close. He forced himself completely  
out of his Mind Palace so he’d be in complete control of his mental faculties. He barely managed a  
single deep, calming breath before the trunk was swung open, exposing him to the dimming light  
of the evening.  
“Honey, we’re home!” Moriarty gleefully sang in that annoying voice of his. Sherlock groaned  
as he was dragged out of the trunk by the lapels of his coat. He fell face-forward into the dirt  
before he was able to regain the feeling in his arms and break his fall. He heard Moriarty chuckle  
as he pushed himself off the ground and brushed the dirt off his less-than-impeccable jacket and  
trousers. He looked down at the consulting criminal for just a moment before turning to examine  
his surroundings, his brain automatically registering every tiny detail. Dryness of the dirt path  
suggests countryside in which the rainfall patterns differ from more urban areas; strong wind and  
brisk air despite it being May which suggests airflow off a nearby body of water; one single,  
abandoned house that was clearly built in the mid 1920s judging by the antiquated architectural  
accentuations and the isolated location…  
Sherlock was still mentally ticking off deductions when he felt the body behind him stir as it  
drew something from a back pocket. The metal clink was familiar and distinctive, and Sherlock  
instinctively turned to face the man who was trying to cuff him. As soon as he had turned,  
however, he felt a pair of strong arms grip him. His instincts kicking in despite his own logic,  
Sherlock struggled against the guard binding him. Judging by the faded tan that stopped short at  
the wrists which suggested prolonged international travel in formal attire, Sherlock deduced that itwas Moran who was gripping his arms behind his back so they could be bound. Sherlock  
wriggled in the tiny amount of space between his back and Moran’s torso, but the man’s grip was  
like iron.  
“Struggling is only going to upset him,” Moriarty drawled in Sherlock’s ear, momentarily  
stopping in his tracks because the closeness was just so repulsive.  
“Isn’t that right, Tiger?” Moriarty’s voice had grown thick with lust, a prospect that urged  
every fiber in Sherlock’s stomach to project vomit everywhere.  
“Yes, sir,” Moran replied in an equally musky tone as he fixed the metal cuffs around  
Sherlock’s bony wrists.  
“Are you done?” Sherlock asked impatiently, his fear cleverly disguised behind his repulsion.  
Suddenly, Moran’s strong hands had him gripped by the shoulders as he turned Sherlock to face  
him and Moriarty. Faster than Sherlock could react, Moran drove a knee into Sherlock’s gut,  
knocking the wind out of him. Sherlock rarely indulged vocal reactions to pain, but the attack was  
too sudden for him to even contract his abdomen muscles in defense. The dull pain pervaded his  
body and was doubled as an elbow struck his back and sent him crashing to his knees. Worse than  
the pain, however, was the sheer degradation of his position. Sherlock inwardly seethed but was  
unable to vocalize his biting words, as he had not yet regained his breath.  
“Rule one, Sherly: Don’t be rude. I don’t want to have to punish you before we even get  
inside. Can you behave for me and Tiger for just five minutes, hmmm?” Moriarty asked  
condescendingly, his voice unbearably smug.  
“Go… fuck...yourself,” Sherlock wheezed, craning his neck to look the consulting criminal in  
the eye. Although Sherlock could not see the man’s eyes, Moriarty’s dramatic sigh gave away the  
rolling of his eyes behind the dark sunglasses. He barely needed to look to his right-hand man;  
Sebastian got the message. He slammed his callused fist into Sherlock’s temple, knocking the man  
sideways and sending waves of anguish throughout his skull. Being in better control of himself,  
however, Sherlock barely groaned as he retreated deep within his Mind Palace in an attempt to  
ignore what was being done to his body. He traveled down the corridor for miles before he found  
his desired room; his childhood bedroom. Above all, it was somewhere that was always quiet and  
safe, regardless of how empty it had always felt without Mycroft. Sherlock curled up in his quilted  
bed and allowed his breath to slow and become calm once more. They couldn’t hurt him here, not  
even Moriarty. He let out a semi-content sigh as the woes of his life left him and he began reciting  
digits of pi to take his mind off his depraved imprisonment,  
Once he was sure that Moran had finished with him, Sherlock ventured out the door of his  
room and, closing the door carefully after him, strode back down the hallway toward his doomed  
reality. He wanted nothing more than to hide in his Mind Palace for the rest of his life, be it just to  
escape Moriarty. He had a lifetime of memories and unsolved cases he could work on, but  
Moriarty didn’t want a broken toy. Sherlock would not curl up at the man’s feet and submit  
willingly, but he wouldn’t run and hide in his own head. He was sure that if Moriarty grew  
frustrated with his lifeless body that he would just go after John and Mary in spite, and that was  
the thought that drove Sherlock to throw open the door to reality.  
The first thing that Sherlock registered was that he was bound to a bed with rather coarse rope  
that irritated his pale skin and left red marks in its wake. The second thing he registered was that  
he was naked. Funnily enough, the pain was the last thing he noticed. Bruises littered his torso and  
legs, and he felt caked blood coating the side of his face. Sherlock forced himself to ignore the dull  
pain for the time being as he surveyed his surroundings. He was in a bare room that held nothing  
but the bed he was currently bound to. There was a single window through which he could see  
vast expanses of green fields and pastures, clearly uninhabited, or else Moriarty wouldn’t havechosen this as his safe haven. The black wallpaper was ominous but peeling in the upper corners  
of the room. Below Sherlock were black silk sheets and black pillows. It was neither warm nor  
cool in the room, but even so, his nakedness left Sherlock feeling chilled and vulnerable. He knew  
he was going to be raped the second Moriarty had approached him on the airstrip with dilated  
pupils, he had always known that the consulting criminal fancied him, but Sherlock would never  
have reciprocated those desires. The rumors were all correct: Sherlock Holmes was indeed a  
virgin. He was also asexual, well, until he had developed feelings for John. He supposed, then,  
that he was demisexual, but the logistics of his own sexuality had always mattered very little to  
him, even during adolescence  
Sherlock tested his bonds by pulling at them, disappointed to find that they barely had any  
give. The only thing he accomplished in fighting his restraints was the rope burns on his wrists  
and ankle. For the first time, it had really sunk in what he had done. It was like he had signed over  
the rights to his life in exchange for John’s, and even though he was completely sure of his  
decision even now that he was bound to a bed, he couldn’t help but feel a little self-pity.  
Somewhere in him, logic spoke up and reminded him that his brother had the entire British  
Government at his disposal and would surely use it to find his baby brother. Moriarty was good,  
though. Good enough that he had even hidden the truth of his being alive from Sherlock  
Holmes…  
Sherlock’s breath quickened involuntarily as he heard an old wooden door creaking and  
footsteps just outside the door to his room. He suddenly became much more self-conscious of his  
naked body, even though it was magnificent. Sherlock was not so vain that he placed value on  
such trivial things such as physical appearance, but even he had to admit that his lithe, pale figure  
was quite the sight. But all of that left him as soon as he watched the door opposite open to reveal  
the slim figure of Jim Moriarty.Chapter 3  
Chapter Notes  
There will be smut in the next and following chapters so bear with me while I get  
some story in place.  
See the end of the chapter for more notes  
“Shezza? Are you ready to be a big boy and apologize?” Moriarty retracted his left arm from  
behind his back to reveal that he was holding a riding crop. He grinned wickedly as he closed the  
door behind him.  
“I’ll untie you if you just say you’re sorrrryyy!” Moriarty’s presence and condescending  
manner made Sherlock want to wrench his hands from their bonds and tear the man limb from  
limb, but he was sure to have other guards stationed around the property that could be beckoned at  
a single call. Sherlock fought to swallow his pride as he tried to force the words out of his  
reluctant mouth. He weighed the two options: Be intransigent and probably left to die until he’s  
ready to apologize, or save himself the anguish of having to wait out his never-dwindling pride  
and apologize now. He could go days without food and sleep, as he often did on cases, but could  
only do so if his mind was properly stimulated. If he wasn’t being properly challenged by a case  
or a puzzle., he basically operated as a normal human, and had the same needs as one. Sherlock  
rolled his eyes and convinced himself it was only a means of survival.  
“I’m sorry,” he said apathetically, his voice conveying no emotion whatsoever.  
“I’m sorry, what?” Moriarty taunted, clearly unwilling to relent unless Sherlock gave him  
exactly what he wanted. And Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted him to say, he could read it  
in his expression, and he knew that Moriarty knew that he knew what he was meant to do, but he  
couldn’t bring himself to say it of his own volition.  
“I’m sorry, Jim?” Sherlock tried, knowing his stalling would do little to satisfy the man.  
Expecting only a witty retort and another opportunity to offer up his pride on a silver platter,  
Sherlock was startled and shocked when Jim brought the riding crop down on his bare chest with  
alarming force. Sherlock hissed as a red welt appeared immediately and as the bruises were  
aggravated by the stinging pain. But even so, he couldn’t submit so easily, that’s exactly what Jim  
wanted. He wanted Sherlock broken, and wanted to enjoy breaking him., but Sherlock could see  
in his eyes that he had grown even crueler in his years of exile. Sherlock did not fear the  
consequences of his actions, nor did he fear the temporary pain of a riding crop, but he did fear  
Moriarty. His two years of unfamiliarity with the man had left him unsure of what he was capable  
of, and that was dangerous.  
“I’m sorry, Master,” he growled through gritted teeth, his stomach dropping with the weight of  
his wounded pride.  
“What was that?” Moriarty taunted, placing a hand behind his ear in mock deafness. Sherlock  
sighed dramatically.  
"I’m sorry, Master,” he said again, fixing Moriarty with a steely gaze.  
“Aw, pet, I forgive you.” Sherlock shuddered at the casual use of the word “pet”, it made allthe more clear that Moriarty owned him, and even though it had been established that Sherlock  
was Moriarty’s, the ease with which he dubbed him “pet” was disturbing and unnerving, to say  
the very least.  
“I’ll untie you now, but you need to promise there’ll be no funny business,” Moriarty said,  
drawing a pocketknife from an inner jacket pocket. Sherlock nodded, wary of the knife in the  
notorious serial killer’s hand. Moriarty grinned as he cut easily through the rope binding Sherlock,  
making sure to touch his bare flesh as much as he could. His predatory gaze made the detective  
want to curl up in a corner and fade away, but no such mercy was bestowed upon him. As soon as  
Moriarty had cut through the last of the ropes, Sherlock swung his fist as hard as he could at the  
consulting criminal’s face. Expecting the blow, however, Moriarty caught Sherlock’s fist midway  
and fixed him with a malicious frown.  
“Now, I won’t have any of that,” he threatened ominously, reaching behind him on the bed to  
retrieve the riding crop, his brown eyes never straying from Sherlock’s blue. With a quick flip of  
his wrist, Moriarty brought the leather crop down onto Sherlock’s chest with a thwap that  
resonated in the silent room. Sherlock hissed, struggling as Moriarty gripped his wrists and placed  
them above his head, his knuckles grazing the wall. He fought and wriggled his hips in futility as  
the villain straddled him, his knees on either side of Sherlock’s thin waist. With the combined  
weight of Moriarty on his stomach and his wrists, Sherlock was unable to buck the smaller man  
off. Moriarty grinned sadistically as his prey continued to wriggle beneath him uselessly  
“I thought we agreed no funny business, pet.” Jim’s voice had grown dark and threatening, and  
it took a lot of Sherlock’s willpower to maintain their eye contact.  
“How naive of you to think I’d make this easy,” Sherlock grunted, never ceasing his efforts to  
throw Moriarty off of him. He knew he was pushing it, but he would be damned if he would be  
taken without a fight. He felt his neck move sharply to the left as Moriarty backhanded him,  
drawing blood from his lip. Sherlock bit back a gasp as he was struck so suddenly, and managed  
to maintain his composure. His ability to remain apathetic about the whole ordeal was threatened,  
however, when Moriarty swept down and licked the traces of blood from Sherlock’s lip in what  
was a rather disgusting display of arousal. Sherlock winced as he felt the other man’s coarse  
tongue sweep over his lip, shivering at the sudden and unwelcomely intimate contact. As he  
pulled away, Moriarty’s eyes were revealed to be consumed by his pupils; barely a sliver of his  
brown irises remained, making both eyes seem black and demonic.  
Sherlock wanted so badly to retreat to the comfort and solace of his Mind Palace, but couldn’t  
bring himself to show such weakness. Sherlock Holmes did not flee in the face of adversity, he  
fought with his chin held high and his resolve strong. Moriarty wanted him broken? Sherlock  
wouldn’t allow him the opportunity. Moriarty wanted to repulse him with the intimacy he knew  
the detective loathed? He would detach himself from his emotions, as he did when Redbeard died,  
as he did when he was forced to hear John’s pleas at his tombstone, as he did when he sacrificed  
his life for the only man he had ever loved  
Moriarty saw that Sherlock was becoming absorbed in his thoughts and felt frustration bubble  
in his chest. His pet needed to learn to pay attention.  
“You’re thinking too much, it’s annoying,” Moriarty growled, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock’s  
raven curls and tugging. Sherlock winced, allowing a small gasp to escape his reluctant mouth.  
His hair follicles were the most sensitive parts of his body, and the sharp burn of pain that  
pervaded his scalp was most unpleasant. He silently willed his brain to shut up, but such was  
never easy He was a genius trained to pick up on every little detail he encountered. Even as  
Moriarty kept insistently tugging on his hair he couldn’t help but notice that his suit was slightly  
wrinkled in a manner that suggested that he was in a post-coital refractory period, having justfinished a rather rowdy sex session with Moran.  
“Notice that, did you?” Moriarty gestured to his wrinkled suit sleeve with his chin. “Don’t  
worry, pet. You’ll get your turn.”  
“No,” was Sherlock’s immediate response. Moriarty chuckled darkly, wrapping Sherlock’s  
dark curls around his fingers in a strangely domestic gesture of intimacy. Sherlock was about to  
question it when he realized Moriarty was petting him. He was repulsed, utterly disgusted at being  
treated like no more than a common dog. Of course, that was all he was to Master Moriarty.  
“You don’t get to say no to me, pet,” Moriarty threatened in a dark tone. He swept down once  
again and captured Sherlock’s slightly parted lips in a rough kiss. As soon as he made contact,  
however, Sherlock shut his lips tightly, barring any possible entrance. Moriarty frowned into the  
kiss; he wouldn’t be having any of that.  
Moriarty tugged hard on Sherlock’s curls so the taller man gasped into the kiss, opening his  
mouth only slightly. Taking advantage of the opportunity, the consulting criminal forced his  
tongue into the open space and deepened the kiss so as to taste every available inch of the  
consulting detective’s mouth. Needless to say, Sherlock was repelled by the tongue in his mouth.  
With a slight inward grin, he got a very stupid idea. Sherlock bit down on Moriarty’s tongue.  
Hard.  
Moriarty cried into Sherlock’s mouth before pulling away, the blood from his tongue dripping  
onto Sherlock’s bare chest. The consulting detective offered him one of his trademark arrogant  
smirks, mentally and physically preparing him for the torrent of pain that was sure to follow his  
little act of rebellion.  
Jim pulled a white kerchief from his inner suit pocket and placed it to the laceration tenderly.  
He fixed Sherlock with a glare that knocked the grin right off his smug little face and replaced the  
satisfaction in his chest with utter fear. He had never seen Moriarty so… angry wasn’t the right  
word. He looked… pensive. As though he was plotting Sherlock’s painful demise. Moriarty  
pulled a pair of handcuffs from his trouser pocket and, quick as lightning, fastened Sherlock’s  
right hand to the bedpost. Without a word, he stood and left the consulting detective alone.  
  
Sherlock tested his bonds for the hundredth time, straining with all his might against the sturdy  
metal cuffs. Six days. Moriarty had left him alone in the room for six days, his only human contact  
being the one time one of Moriarty’s men from the truck came and brought him a bucket. For six  
days Sherlock had not eaten nor drunk a thing. He had gone days on end without food for cases  
before, it was actually a schedule to which he was accustomed, but he always had John to come  
home to. He always had John to remind him to eat at the end of a particularly long day.  
Worse than the starvation (which was truly agonizing), was the silence. Sherlock’s brain was built  
to be constantly stimulated and challenged. If he went a single day without a case he became  
irritable and cranky. Imagine six days where he was just meant to sit or lay on a bed for twenty  
four hours.  
By day three he was screaming for help, screaming for John. By day four he had resumed his old  
habit of talking to himself, as he used to do before he had a friend. By day five he cried himself to  
sleep by torturing himself with thoughts and memories of John. By day six he was ready to kill  
himself. His brain had analyzed every centimetre of the entire room a hundred times, and yet still  
couldn’t shut up. His stomach wouldn’t stop pestering him. Sherlock was certain that he was  
meant to die like this; tied to a bed in the middle of nowhere without his blogger, without even his  
skull for companionship. So, when Moriarty entered the room at last, Sherlock was ready  
“Hello, pet,” Moriarty cooed, closing the door behind him. He was still dressed to the nines in a  
black Westwood suit, looking nourished, comfortable, and utterly sadistic.  
“Hello, Master.” Sherlock had since forgotten that he even had pride. Now the only thing he had  
was apathy and a will to die. He was sitting with his back against the metal bars of the headboard,  
barely able to hold his head up. Moriarty grinned. His pet was broken. Well, broken enough,  
anyway. He stalked toward him like a lion would a wounded gazelle.  
“Would you like something to eat, Shezza?” Moriarty sat gingerly on the side of the bed, doing his  
very best to try not to cry out in elation.  
“Yes, please, Master,” Sherlock looked up eagerly, his face displaying all the excitement  
of a kid in a candy store.  
“Ah-ah-ah, I want you to do something for me first.” Moriarty truly loved this part; the part where  
he got to enjoy the benefits of his patience.  
“Yes, Master?” Sherlock was eager to be fed, but still wary of Moriarty’s manipulation and even  
more so of whatever would be expected of him.“If you suck my cock, I’ll give you a nice meal, some water, and a shower. How does that  
sound?” Moriarty knew that Sherlock was not yet delirious and would not be extremely keen to  
service his Master just yet, but he was sure that he had done enough that he would at the very least  
be willing to consider it. That much he could hope for.  
Sherlock’s face went pensive, as it often did when he was trying to figure out a difficult part of a  
case. He silently pondered the offer. He had never even kissed anyone (he didn’t think Moriarty’s  
assault really counted). How did one even go about sucking a cock? Sherlock was frightened by  
the very prospect of intimacy, and this must have shown on his face, as Moriarty grinned a little  
and gingerly began stroking Sherlock’s curls. Before he could even register what he was doing,  
Sherlock leaned into the touch, eager for the slightest amount of human contact. It repulsed him  
how needy he was. He would have been stronger, more resilient, if he hadn’t grown accustomed  
to having frequent interactions with John. When it was just him and his skull, he rarely even  
noticed that he was lonely, but once he had gotten a taste of John it was impossible to return to his  
old life of solitude and isolation. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be fed and to bathe, but he  
was so utterly lost that he felt tears well up in his eyes. Moriarty, encouraged by his pet’s moment  
of weakness, continued his stroking and petting.  
“I can talk you through it, pet. You won’t be great your first time, but you’ll learn,” Moriarty  
cooed, trying his very best to appear compassionate. This was a tactic he often used on his pets;  
bring them to the edge of their breaking point, and then ease them over the edge so as to gain  
some of their trust and to establish that you could be depended on. Sherlock despised himself for  
his weakness, so he bit back his tears and gave an almost imperceptible nod. On any other day,  
Moriarty would have chastised him for not verbally acquiescing, but he figured he would cut the  
detective some slack. It was his first time, after all.  
Reaching into his suit pocket, Moriarty withdrew the key to the handcuffs binding Sherlock to the  
bed and unlocked them. Sherlock rubbed the raw and bloody chafing that was left in the  
handcuffs’ wake, wincing as his fingers passed over a particularly deep part of the gash. Moriarty  
made a mental note to see that that wound didn’t get infected; he wouldn’t have his pet dying of  
something so basic as a flesh wound infection. How boring would that be?  
Moriarty stood from the bed and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. The taller man obeyed  
timidly, his bones cracking loudly as he stood for the first time in nearly a week. He cringed as his  
back protested the sudden movement. Moriarty stood in front of the consulting detective, his  
bravado compensating for the very obvious height difference. He pushed down slightly on  
Sherlock’s shoulders, and thankfully, the younger man understood the gesture and fell to his knees  
on the plush carpet. In a more lucid state, Sherlock would have protested the degrading position,  
but his mind had grown foggy with fear and exhaustion. He no longer cared what happened to  
him that day, as long as he got food and water he’d live to fight another day, regardless of the  
price he’d have to pay for it.  
Moriarty unzipped his trousers, the sound and its implications making Sherlock panic slightly.  
Without pulling his trousers down, Moriarty drew his cock out of his bright red pants. Sherlock  
willed himself not to shy away as he was presented with a penis that was only a few inches from  
his face. Whether it was big or small, Sherlock was unsure, as he had no frame of reference other  
than his own. He nearly grinned as he realized that his cock was bigger. It was a stupid, trivial  
thing to notice, and something he would not care about under normal circumstances, but he just  
found it amusing that the man who had imprisoned him had a smaller penis. This fleeting moment  
of satisfaction was gone, however, as Moriarty put his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and  
urged him toward his half-hard cock. Just the sight of Sherlock Holmes on his knees with his large  
cock lying uselessly between his legs was enough to arouse Moriarty. Someday he would be  
granted pleasure, he would be allowed to get off, but such rewards were only given to very good  
boys.Sherlock’s mind kicked back into action as he approached the cock in front of him. Extremely  
wary of the last time he angered Moriarty with his teeth, he tucked his lips over his top and bottom  
rows and fitted his mouth around the head. Moriarty swallowed a gasp as his cock was met with  
the warm wetness of Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted nothing more than to buck his hips and  
mercilessly fuck the man’s face, but he knew he had to take this one slowly, or he’d have to start  
over again.  
Sherlock’s tongue played at the slit and tip of Moriarty’s penis, teasing him and scientifically  
cataloguing the different effects of different tactics. Little by little, Sherlock proceeded further  
down the shaft and he could hear Moriarty’s gasp of pleasure when he reached the base with little  
effort. He could feel the tip bobbing against the back of his throat, but it caused him little  
discomfort. His gag reflex wasn’t very sensitive, apparently. Moriarty groaned as Sherlock traced  
the underside vein with his tongue. Sherlock tried to view this as an experiment, distancing  
himself from the sheer intimacy of what he was doing, but to no avail. He had Jim Moriarty’s cock  
in his mouth. He had Jim Moriarty’s cock in his mouth. As many times as he repeated that to  
himself, it still didn’t make sense to him. Sherlock’s thoughts drifted to John, and he imagined that  
it was the army doctor’s dick in his mouth. He imagined the scruffy blonde pubic hairs and the  
tanned, fit figure of his toned arms and stomach. He pictured himself cupping those perfect  
arsecheeks and slipping a finger or two into the ring of muscle, bending and scissoring until he  
found John’s prostate…  
Moriarty watched as Sherlock grew hard. While initially pleased that the man responded to sex  
and was able to be aroused, he grew furious when he deduced that the detective was fantasizing  
about that damn blogger of his. How dare he? Moriarty took a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and  
tugged him off his cock just in time for him to come all over that pristine, high-cheekboned face  
and those firm pectoral muscles. He was going to be kind and just come down his throat, but now  
it was clear that Sherlock had to be taught his place.  
Sherlock was forced to open his eyes and abandon his fantasy as he felt himself being painfully  
tugged off Moriarty’s cock. He was about to inquire about the sudden change in plan when he  
was defiled by the man’s semen. It came out in thick ropes of white, sticky fluid that coated his  
lips, his face, and his chest. It was disgusting, to say the least. While Sherlock kneeled, still in  
shock from his sudden defilement, Moriarty tucked his limp cock back into his trousers.  
“You are not allowed to fantasize about John, ever. Am I understood?” Moriarty grabbed  
Sherlock’s dark curls and twisted mercilessly, causing the detective to cry out. Sherlock nodded  
fervishly, fearing any further punishment.  
“Say it,” Jim growled, not releasing his harsh grip on his pet’s hair.  
“Yes, Master!” Sherlock wailed, his voice hoarse after the blowjob.  
“After that, I don’t know if you deserve your reward. Maybe I should leave you in here another  
night until you’ve learned your lesson,” Moriarty released Sherlock’s curls, leaving them  
disheveled and ruffled. Sherlock’s fear kicked back in again; he wouldn’t last another night. As  
much as he thought he wanted to, Sherlock knew he truly didn’t want to die. As long as he was  
alive, he had a chance to return to John and have a life. It was this that motivated Sherlock to  
release his pride entirely and just break down.  
“No!” Moriarty raised a single eyebrows, mentally squealing with glee while outwardly remaining  
an expression of sadism and cold appraisal.  
“No, Master, please. I’ll be good, I swear!” Sherlock licked his lips instinctively, disgusted to find  
that the sharp bitterness of Moriarty’s cum still remained.“You could try for a little more sincerity, Shezza, and then I’ll consider letting you eat,” Moriarty  
crossed his arms above Sherlock, satisfied that he was made all the more dominant by the taller  
man’s kneeling position. .  
“Please, Master. I’m sorry I fantasized about someone other than you. It won’t happen again.  
Please, let me eat something,” Sherlock implored, his knees growing sore even with the  
cushioning of the carpet beneath them.  
“Okay, Shezza. Just this one time, I’ll accept your apology. But if this happens again, I can assure  
you that I won’t be so merciful. Am I understood?”  
“Yes, Master.”Chapter 5  
  
“I’m doing all I can, John. I have every surveillance camera in the United Kingdom at my  
disposal, as well as the various spies enlisted by the British Secret Service,” Mycroft explained for  
the hundredth time, his tone laced with exhaustion and impatience. John said something that  
sounded vaguely like “and yet you haven’t moved a muscle yourself” but he chose not to reply  
with the scathing retort he had at the ready. With a sigh, he hung up the phone and set it back on  
the desk, his head in his hands. Sherlock had been missing for nearly a week and he didn’t have a  
single lead. He knew that Moriarty didn’t want to kill him, that much was made clear in his little  
monologue at the airstrip, which John had relayed. The army doctor had been in utter distress  
every since, according to Mycroft’s intel. He rarely ate, barely slept, and his nightmares were  
back. And apparently, things were going badly with the wife, who obviously cared very little for  
Sherlock, as she was unwilling to discuss him much. Mycroft had deduced that the only thing  
keeping John with Mary was the baby They had been having rough patches long before Sherlock  
as abducted, but none so bad as the recent ones. In some way, Mycroft felt sympathy for John  
Watson, but more for his baby brother. He was sure that Moriarty was going to exploit him for  
sexual reasons, and he knew that his brother was utterly petrified by the very concept of sex,  
despite his futile attempts to convince everyone otherwise.  
Mycroft sighed and took another gulp from the glass of scotch on his desk. He had never been  
much of a drinker until he became involved in the British Government, but the stress had driven  
him to the bottle many years ago. And now that his little brother was in the hands of the most  
notorious criminal in all of the UK, his stress was tripled. His heart wept for Sherlock, despite  
knowing that he was strong and could withstand most anything. Mycroft sighed deeply. Caring  
was not an advantage, but at this point, it couldn’t be helped.  
…  
John paced the living room of his and Mary’s small flat, unable to take his mind off Sherlock for  
even a moment. His heart was broken, and his wife was of no help. Every time he looked at her,  
his stomach churned. Not because she was a liar and a spy, not because he no longer loved her,  
but because he had an obligation to her and his baby. John Watson was many things, but he was  
not a man to run out on his child, regardless of the circumstances. Sherlock was gone, so if he  
were to leave Mary, where would he go? Baker Street? He’d never be able to function in an  
environment that was so distinctly Sherlock. Nostalgia tugged at his heart strings as he wept  
silently.  
Mary padded into the room some time later to find her husband asleep on the couch, squirming  
and panting. A nightmare. Her heart broke for the poor man, but there was little she could do to  
comfort him. Mary was no genius detective, but even she could see that John was in love withSherlock. She saw that he no longer loved her, and was glad that the baby was something to keep  
him around. She loved John, and if Sherlock wasn’t around, then she was free to love him without  
fear of his interference.  
  
  
  
Sherlock stared into the nothingness as he felt the rivulets of water trickle down his body. He  
knew he had but mere minutes to shower but he could do little more than just allow the water to  
wash away the traces of Jim’s cum left on his naked body. His jaw was sore and his throat hoarse,  
but he was slowly regaining his strength and peace of mind as the scathingly hot water doused  
cleansed him of the evidence of the act he had just committed. Sherlock ran a hand through his  
curls gingerly before pouring some of the strawberry-scented gel into his palm and liberally  
applying it to his scalp. He only washed his hair to rid himself of the lingering touch he still felt,  
the touch of Jim’s skin on his body.  
“Hurry up, Sherly!” Jim’s voice rang in the tiled room, reverberating off the walls and echoing in  
Sherlock’s mind endlessly. Sherlock quickly rinsed the suds from his hair and shut off the water,  
lest Moriarty be annoyed by his dawdling. The consulting detective toweled off his hair before  
wrapping another towel around his waist. He exited the old, grimy bathroom, tendrils of steam  
snaking out of the open door and dissolving into nothing. Sherlock waddled over to the table  
where Moriarty sat waiting. There was a pair of briefs, sweatpants, and a simple t-shirt on the  
table, as well as a plate containing a takeout burger, fries, and cup of water. Sherlock padded over  
in his towel, not allowing himself to feel glee. These gifts weren’t going to come cheap.  
“Come here,” Moriarty said, gesturing to the space directly in front of him. Sherlock obeyed  
reluctantly, not quite eager to be so close to the consulting criminal.  
“Kneel,” Moriarty commanded once Sherlock had reached him. Sherlock looked down at him  
with barely disguised incredulity. As soon as he did not obey immediately, Moriarty’s sly grin  
turned immediately into a grave frown. If Sherlock weren’t frightened by it, it might have been  
comical how quickly Moriarty’s mood changed.  
“I’m not going to ask again,” he threatened, pointing at the spot of carpet directly at his feet.  
Sherlock wanted so badly to tell Moriarty to stick it where the sun shines, but the smell of the food  
was intoxicating and it clouded his mind. He dropped to his knees obediently. Moriarty smirked  
and reached out a hand to pet him condescendingly. Sherlock remained entirely still as the evil  
man played with his wet hair and pet him as one would a dog.  
“So, Shezza, I’m going to make you an offer,” Moriarty said. Sherlock instantly stiffened under  
his hand, making Moriarty chuckle darkly.  
“Either you can forgo the clothes and eat now, or be allowed to wear them and have to wait until  
this time tomorrow to eat,” Moriarty declared. Sherlock’s stomach gave a mighty rumble, as did  
his brain. He knew exactly what Moriarty was doing: he was making Sherlock an impossible deal.  
Humans can only go so long without food, with seven days being the absolute maximum.  
Sherlock had a strange metabolism and a greater tolerance for hunger than most people, but even  
he couldn’t withstand the pain of another sleepless night of starvation. Moriarty wanted him to  
give in to his hunger and be weak and submissive and just give him that much more control. He  
knew it was stupid, but Sherlock felt as though he’d be safer, less vulnerable if he could be  
clothed. Despite knowing that he would be at Moriarty’s mercy regardless, he still craved the  
comfort and safety of clothing.  
“I’ll- I’ll take the food, Master,” Sherlock blurted out the words before his own desire for comfort  
got him killed. He knew he was giving in and handing Moriarty exactly what he wanted, but at  
this point he really didn’t care. He wanted to eat so badly.“Good choice, Shezza,” Moriarty cooed condescendingly. Sherlock loathed him for his fucking  
smugness, for his arrogance. He hated Moriarty for being like him. Sherlock stood to sit at the  
table when Moriarty shot him a look.  
“Did I give you permission to stand?” He asked haughtily. Sherlock frowned.  
“I was just getting up t- to sit at the table, Master,” Sherlock hated himself for stammering.  
“Oh no, Sherley, you stay down there,” Moriarty patronized. Sherlock was about to inquire  
further, confused, when Moriarty reached over to the plate, grabbed a fry, and held it out to  
Sherlock. The detective reached out for the morsel, but as soon as his arm moved, the consulting  
criminal whisked it away.  
“No,” was his only explanation. Sherlock’s face darkened as he realized what Moriarty was trying  
to do. I’m not going to let it affect me, that’s all. That way, he doesn’t win anything, Sherlock  
thought to himself. When he dropped his hand back to his lap, Moriarty brought the fry back  
down and offered it to him again. Sherlock took it from him with his teeth, chewing and  
swallowing quickly so as not to choke on the humiliation that was burning in his throat.  
They continued like that for nearly half an hour: Moriarty feeding Sherlock and Sherlock trying  
his very best not to make contact with Moriarty’s skin as he took the food from his hand. Once  
Sherlock had finished his meal he felt much better. He felt invigorated, as though there was hope  
for him, hope that he could be rescued from this hell and he and John could be together at last.  
“Don’t move,” Moriarty commanded. He stood from his chair and strolled out of sight, but  
Sherlock could still hear him rummaging around in the next room. He turned his head in an  
attempt to catch a glimpse, but Moriarty’s voice rang out.  
“That’s moving, Sherl.” He didn’t necessarily say it as a threat but Sherlock ceased his movements  
nonetheless. He turned his head back so he was facing forward, his hands crossed in his lap. He  
heard Moriarty come up behind him and he tensed involuntarily. Moriarty glided back into his  
view, but he was holding something in his hand. A strip of leather on which Sherlock read the  
word “pet”. It was a collar.  
Instinctively, Sherlock shied away from the cursed object. Moriarty looked directly at him, his  
eyes gleaming with the creativity of a true sadist. Sherlock was so focused on the collar that he  
didn’t notice the riding crop in Jim’s other hand.  
“Put it on, Shezza,” Moriarty commanded. Sherlock just shook his head, his damp curls bouncing  
on his head. He didn’t even have time to blink before Moriarty swung the riding crop, catching  
Sherlock on the right cheek, creating a stinging welt that drew tears from Sherlock’s eyes.  
“Here’s how this is going to work, you arrogant little slut,” Moriarty snarled. “I will strike you  
until you bleed, until you’re begging for mercy. One way or another, I will break you. If it’s not  
today, then it’s tomorrow, or the next day. I have an arsenal and a lot of time on my hands, Sherly.  
One way or another, I will break you. Now. Put. It. On.” Moriarty threw the piece of leather at  
Sherlock, who caught it in hand as it bounced off his face. Sherlock was as scared as he had ever  
been in his life. Moriarty wasn’t fucking around this time. But, then again, neither was he. In the  
split second it took him to decide his fate, Sherlock thought of John. The kind but brave army  
doctor who was never daunted by a challenge or when staring adversity directly in the face. John  
had fought a war. John had suffered through a disability (okay, fine it was a psychosomatic limp,  
but he had struggled nevertheless). John had withstood a two year hiatus of emotional detachment.  
John would want Sherlock to fight this. If John could singularly be the most extraordinary person  
in existence, Sherlock would do his very best to live as John would under the same circumstances.Sherlock, with a newfound determination pumping adrenaline through his veins, threw the collar  
back at Moriarty, where it slapped him harmlessly on the face and fell into his waiting hand. The  
consulting criminal stared at the strip of leather in hand, the cogs in his brain churning so rapidly  
that even Sherlock was having trouble deducing his thoughts.  
“Moran!” Moriarty suddenly yelled, standing abruptly from his chair. Sebastian came strolling into  
the room, casually dressed in a pair of jeans and dark red shirt.  
“Yeah, Boss?” He asked, leaning against the doorframe that led to what Sherlock assumed was  
the kitchen.  
“Do be a lamb and tie the slut back to the bed,” Moriarty instructed. “And be sure to put him on  
his stomach,” he added as an afterthought.  
“Sure, Boss,” Moran acquiesced. He reached down for Sherlock’s wrist but the detective drew his  
arm back and struck the sniper across the face with his bare hand. The sound of skin slapping skin  
resounded in the room. Moran just started laughing darkly, a true mimic of his boss.  
“You could at least try to make it a challenge for me, Holmes.” Moran knocked away Sherlock’s  
flailing legs with ease and grabbed his wrists, but the detective kept struggling, so the sniper just  
slung him over his shoulder. He then grabbed a length of rope from a nearby chair and carried  
Sherlock back into the cell that was the bedroom.

Jim Moriarty stood over his sleeping pet, ever so excited for what he was about to do. He had  
always known that Sherlock was mentally guarded enough that psychological torture wouldn’t  
work on him, so he was forced to rely on his arsenal of physical torture techniques. Mental torture  
he often prefers, simply because of the power he holds over a majority of the ordinary population.  
Physically speaking, he’s not that big of a threat, but that’s why he has Sebby.  
He was hoping that Sherlock would hold out a bit longer than six days, and thankfully he did.  
Moriarty figured he had two months of glorious quality time with Sherlock before his nosy brother  
found his hideaway. He wanted at least two weeks of those eight to be dedicated to breaking  
Sherlock, the following week to be used for training, and all the time after that to be dedicated to  
the torturing of John Watson. Oh, his plan was so delicious.  
Moriarty decided he had given his pet enough lenience. He had to be taught his place, because he  
could feel his patience slipping and killing Sherlock out of frustration would be a lot of work to  
clean up. Moriarty brought the bamboo stick down on the detective’s back. Hard. It instantly  
created a red line of irritation, long and thin. Sherlock awoke with a gasp. As he tried to turn his  
head to look at his attacker, he received another hard strike on the back that caused him to bite  
hard on his lip to avoid crying out.  
“This is your punishment for defying me, pet,” Moriarty explained, shamelessly ogling Sherlock’s  
perfect arse as he did so. “You will count and after every strike you will say ‘Thank you, Master.  
May I have another?’ until we reach one hundred. If you fail to say it or hesitate too long, we will  
start over. Am I understood?” Sherlock, despite his logic practically drowning him, remained  
silent. Moriarty wasted no time, striking Sherlock directly on the space where arse meets upper  
thigh, the most sensitive part of his lanky legs. Sherlock whimpered, clenching his fists and biting  
his lip to abate the pain.  
“Yes, Master,” he said through gritted teeth. Moriarty seemed satisfied, so he struck Sherlock  
again on his back, creating columns of thin red lines.  
SMACK! “Thank you, Master. May I have another?” Sherlock is gritting his teeth.  
SMACK! “Th-ank you, Master. May I have another?” Sherlock’s lip has begun to bleed because  
he is determined not to scream.  
SMACK! “T-th-” Sherlock is sobbing openly. “ThankyoumastermayIhave” Sherlock can’t get  
through the sentence without breaking into a fit of sobs. Moriarty is hitting him so hard that he’s  
drawing blood.  
Sherlock gets to twenty five articulate-enough “thank you”s before he can barely speak and they  
have to start over.  
Sherlock gets through another ten before the blood in his mouth distorts his words and Moriarty  
isn’t satisfied.  
Ten more and Sherlock has long since forgotten that he’s not supposed to be screaming. His  
wailing is causing his throat to crack and he can barely open his eyes because the tears are coming  
so fast. They start over for what seems like the thousandth time.  
“Aw, come on, Shezza. It’s not that hard,” Moriarty cooes above him, landing another hard swipe  
on Sherlock’s buttocks. His back is practically torn to shreds, leading a trail of angry red welts thatstretch all the way down to his calves. He had withstood torture in his two-year hiatus, but he was  
able to fight through it because he was sure that he was going to return to his John. It was that  
thought that allowed him to stay alive even when the torture was increased to a fatal level of  
intensity. But now that his future was unclear, that he couldn’t be sure that he would return,  
Sherlock was drowning in a sea of his own hopelessness.  
“Please, oh God please just make it stop just kill me I need it to end John come help,” Sherlock  
mumbles incoherently, barely hanging on to consciousness. For a split second everything stops,  
and Moriarty’s voice is shrill in the silence that has replaced the repeated thwacking sounds.  
“Sebby! My arm hurts. Come in here and take over,” Moriarty yells. Sherlock is too absorbed in  
his own sobbing and the agonizing burning all over his body that he barely registers the door  
opening.  
“When do I stop, Boss?” Moran asks, taking the blood-stained stick from his employer’s hand.  
“You don’t,” is Moriarty’s simple reply. The door closes with an audible bang and Sherlock  
tenses as he senses Moran come up behind him. On the very first hit, Sherlock screams so loud he  
hears birds outside fly away in alarm. Moran is hitting way harder than Moriarty did. The  
analytical part of Sherlock’s brain, while dulled by the waves of pain that assault it, ration that its  
because of Moran’s height and strength difference. Sherlock doesn’t even bother trying to say his  
assigned thanks, because his throat is too raw and his body in too much pain and he just wants it  
all to end. Smack! He wants to die. Smack! He can feel the blood loss beginning to affect him.  
Smack! He definitely wants to kill Moriarty before he dies. Smack! Everything is going dark.  
SMACK!

 

  
When Sherlock awoke, it took him several moments before he remembered what had happened.  
He supposed he passed out, because he didn’t remember much past Moran’s entrance. Blinking  
the sleep from his eyes, Sherlock instantly began deducing the room he was in. He was lying on  
his back, and now that he was awake and at the mercy of his senses, his back started to burn with  
the friction. From what he could tell, there were no dressings or bandages, nor had he been given  
any kind of sedative or pain medication. Sherlock made a move to scratch his nose when he  
realized that he was no longer bound. I should have noticed that sooner, Sherlock thought to  
himself. He needed a case to exercise his mind, or else it deteriorated. He had learned that much in  
his years of drug abuse. Although he had to admit, cocaine was a good enough substitute for  
proper mental stimulation.  
The moment Sherlock tried to sit up, he screamed with the pain that tore through his back.  
Stretching his muscles, even in the slightest of ways, caused waves of burning pain to cascade  
throughout Sherlock’s entire body. The stinging agony brought tears to his eyes, but he grit his  
teeth and managed to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. His arse also seared with  
anguish as it suffered through the burn of the friction. The silk sheets were cool and probably the  
most tolerable fabric he could be met with, but the action of sitting up left him in tears anyway.  
His eyes were immediately drawn to the large blood stain he had been previously lying in. The  
detective took a deep breath and reached around to tenderly touch the long, red gashes that painted  
his pale skin. With the slightest touch, the cuts seemed to be doused in acid fire. Sherlock grunted  
in pain as he put his weight on his shaky legs. It took all of his strength and resolve to remain  
standing, as dizziness, pain, and fatigue overcame him and added the weight of a thousand  
Mycrofts to his shoulders.  
Sherlock, after an obligatory eye sweep, found that the room was as bare as it had been  
previously, save for the mirror on the far wall and the bedside table that lay next to him. On that  
table lay the collar, gleaming ominously in the light streaming in from the one window. Sherlock  
once again was forced to ask himself what John would do next, and seeing as he was a doctor,  
Sherlock figured he’d survey his wounds. He tentatively stepped over to the mirror, where he  
stared himself full in the face for five minutes. His lithe body had become practically emaciated.  
He had been eating so little that his ribs were prominent and his skin faintly gray. Sherlock  
deduced that it had been two days since he had been whipped within an inch of his life, and  
therefore two days since he had eaten. He found it hard to believe that he had been trapped in this  
hell for little more than a week; it felt like a lifetime.  
Sherlock turned his back to the mirror and then, with great anxiety bubbling within him, turned his  
head to look at his wounds. They were, without a doubt, some of the worst he’d ever seen, even  
on the jobs and cases he had worked on trauma and torture victims. His entire back was swollen,  
red, bloody, and a fair amount of skin was gone. Sherlock fought to keep the bile down as it crept  
up his throat just as his eyes wandered down his body. His arse might as well have been the sun,  
what with how it glowed and burned fiery red and discolored orange. His legs looked like a  
chessboard, as the thin straight lines had been crossed and re-crossed so many times that everygash had another two atop it.  
Sherlock felt tears gather in his eyes, but not from the pain alone. He was truly helpless. He had  
continued to underestimate Moriarty and this is where it had gotten him. What good was his pride  
if it only caused him injury? What good were his memories of John if they did nothing but cause  
pain and nostalgia? What good was resisting if he’d just be better off giving up?  
Sherlock scanned the room again until he found what he was looking for. In the right-hand corner  
above the mirror, a camera was attached to the wall. Sherlock allowed himself a grave sigh of selfpity  
and self-loathing as he picked up the collar and fastened it around his neck. It felt so  
perversely wrong, so very very demented. It felt unnatural and heavy, as he was constantly aware  
of it rubbing against his Adam’s Apple. The very instant he put it on, his neck felt irritable and  
itchy. Sherlock was unable to look at himself in the mirror because he didn’t see Sherlock Holmes.  
All he saw was PET, the tacky lettering looking much too bold in contrast to the dark brown  
leather of the collar. When Sherlock looked at himself, it was as though he was no longer seeing a  
person. Well, not a whole person, anyway. All he saw was Jim Moriarty’s toy, broken at last.  
Sherlock was much too glad to tear his eyes from his reflection as he heard the door creak as it  
opened. Moriarty entered, a broad grin on his face.  
“What a good boy,” he squealed. The smile didn’t fade from his face, but it faded from his eyes as  
Sherlock turned to look at him. His dark brown eyes said it all, and Sherlock would rather his eyes  
did the talking instead of his mouth. He got the message, so he knelt, wincing as the backs of his  
knees folded over various welts that had been made there. On purpose, he would assume.  
“Aw, Shezza, that little hedgehog of yours would be so proud!” Moriarty joked, stroking  
Sherlock’s slightly sweat-dampened curls. He watched carefully for a reaction, and to his utter  
delight, he saw the detective gnaw on the inside of his cheek rather than provide a response.  
Moriarty continued his possessive stroking of Sherlock’s hair, deciding that he’d have a little more  
fun with his toy.  
“Sherl, do you think you can remember 10 simple rules?”  
“Rule one: Do not fantasize about John or anyone that is not Master,” Sherlock recited from  
memory. He was kneeling before Moriarty and Moran two weeks after he had decided to put on  
his collar. He hadn’t taken it off since.  
“Rule two: Do not disobey. Ever.”  
“Rule three: Do not stand unless permitted.”  
“Rule four: Do not take off the collar unless permitted.”  
“Rule five: Always refer to Master as such, and to Mr. Moran as ‘Mr. Moran’ or ‘sir’,”  
“Rule six: Do not try to escape.”  
“Rule seven: All punishments will be met by ‘Thank you, sir. May I have another?’ If I fail to do  
this properly, the punishment will start over and will be prolonged until Master is satisfied.”  
“Rule eight: Do not cum unless permitted.”  
“Rule nine: Always kneel on Master’s left-hand side at meals and never use hands.”  
“Rule ten: If I ever attempt to make contact with my brother, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, or any  
other person, all of my friends will die.”  
Moran and Moriarty clapped facetiously, the consulting criminal’s face glowing with his pride in  
his pet’s progress. Jim reached his hand down and gave Sherlock a sweet. Sherlock took it in  
earnest, sucking Master’s fingers as he knew he liked. Moriarty smiled and ran a hand through his  
pet’s hair affectionately.  
“That’s quite the party trick, Holmes,” Moran commented, taking two large gulps of his beer.  
“Thank you, sir,” Sherlock replied quietly.  
It had taken two weeks to get those ten rules burned into Sherlock’s brain. His back and legs had  
since healed and he was happy. Moriarty established that good behavior was rewarded and bad  
behavior punished, and Sherlock was quick to pick up the concept after the whipping incident. He  
had been punished after that, but only for minor infractions like not folding Master’s suit properly  
before sex or coming without permission. Sherlock remembered his first time with Moriarty very  
vividly…  
“Since you’ve been such a good boy lately, I’m going to stretch you first,” Moriarty cooed, taking  
an unopened bottle of lube from the bedside drawer.  
“Thank you, Master,” Sherlock replied. Fear was coursing through him as quickly as cocaine  
once did. He didn’t know what to expect, he didn’t know what to do-“Stop thinking so much, pet. Daddy’s going to take care of you,” Moriarty silenced Sherlock’s  
thoughts with a quick kiss. Sherlock kissed back because that’s what he was supposed to do.  
Moriarty spread the lube over his fingers and warmed them up in his other palm before sticking  
one into his pet. Sherlock winced slightly, both out of pain and worry. The intrusion was unlike  
anything Sherlock had ever felt before, but once Master started moving it around a bit and  
pushing further, Sherlock was able to relax his muscles and it made it much easier. Moriarty  
added another finger, making Sherlock wriggle out of discomfort. He eased his way into the ring  
of muscle, stretching and scissoring and pushing deep into the detective. His fingers brushed  
Sherlock’s prostate and the man groaned involuntarily. Moriarty grinned in satisfaction as he  
added another finger and began probing the dense mass of tissue. He played Sherlock like a Bach  
melody, making his pet dance beneath him. He watched Sherlock grow hard and was sure to  
monitor his fantasizing. No infractions yet.  
Moriarty generously lubed up his rapidly swelling cock. Watching Sherlock come undone had  
become something of a hobby for him, and it rarely failed to give him a hard-on. He placed his tip  
at Sherlock’s entrance and allowed his pet just a moment of preparation before he pushed in. He  
was being much too tender for his own comfort, but he had to gain Sherlock’s trust and obedience  
somehow. He had wanted to relentlessly pound into that ass on several occasions, but his  
patience had paid of .  
Sherlock groaned as Moriarty slid his way past his ring of muscle and winced as a slight burn  
arose from the friction and the stretch. He was grateful for the lube and the preparation, and it  
was the knowledge that this could be much worse was what kept him compliant. Once Moriarty  
was completely sheathed inside his pet, he began to move. Sherlock gasped as the burn grew  
worse, but calmed as soon as Moriarty was able to hit his prostate. The detective gave a most  
wanton moan that embarassed even Moriarty. The consulting criminal grinned and adjusted  
Sherlock’s hips so as to hit his prostate every thrust.  
The room was filled with panting and the sinful sound of skin slapping against skin as Moriarty  
picked up the pace. Sherlock, in an attempt to speed up the process (or that’s what he told  
himself) began to move his hips in synchronization. He wanted to touch his throbbing erection so  
badly, but Master had made it abundantly clear that it was his job, and his job only to bring  
Sherlock of . Sherlock deduced by his loss in rhythm and grunting that his Master was close to  
orgasm, so he thrust his hips harder and harder, the burn of his arse long since lost in the  
pleasure. Moriarty took Sherlock’s cock in hand and began pumping mercilessly. Sherlock  
groaned, his voice having gone done way too many octaves. That sound alone drove Moriarty  
over the edge, and he was consumed by orgasm as he filled Sherlock to the brim. He kept  
pumping sloppily and rode out a few more thrusts as he came of his high. Meanwhile, Sherlock  
was fighting of his orgasm with every fiber of strength he had ever possessed.  
Master- I’m close,” Sherlock groaned. “Please, can I come?” Moriarty leaned down and  
captured his pet’s mouth in a fierce kiss.  
“Come for me, pet,” he commanded, lust heavy in his voice. Sherlock felt his balls tighten and his  
stomach muscles contract as his orgasm drowned him in white-hot bliss. He barely registered the  
burn of his Master exiting him as euphoric pleasure consumed him. He cried out as thick white  
ropes of cum shot out of him. It was more than average, as Sherlock had only wanked once in his  
life and even then it was for an experiment. When the last traces of bliss left him and he opened  
his eyes, Sherlock found his Master cleaning him of with a flannel.  
“Thank you, Master,” he whispered, all the strength drained from his body. Moriarty swooped  
down and kissed him tenderly, his tongue tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip.  
“You’re welcome, pet,” he whispered, lying down and spooning with him. Sherlock felt armswrap around his waist, and, perverse as it was, he felt content.  
They had had sex many times since, Sherlock always serving as the bottom. He had actually  
grown to enjoy sex, well, when it was the good kind. Sometimes Mr. Moran joined them and  
Sherlock was fucked from both sides. Sometimes he was just made to suck them off and wasn’t  
allowed to touch himself at all. Sometimes there were toys and whips and chains. But, mostly, it  
was okay. It was an okay life, once he had grown accustomed to it. There was a pattern, there was  
a routine, and as trivial and boring as that was, it was good. Sherlock still thought about and  
missed John, but that was a rarely indulged pleasure, as Master always knew and was always  
quick to punish Sherlock’s bad behavior.  
Sherlock spaced out as Mr. Moran and Master started discussing something trivial and boring. He  
absentmindedly took his food from his Master’s hand when it was offered, but his eyes remained  
unfocused as he continued to think.  
“Pet?” Moriarty called Sherlock to attention, realizing that he had grown quietly pensive.  
“Yes, Master?” Sherlock’s head whipped around quickly. He had learned that it was not good to  
ignore Master when he called.  
“What were you thinking about?” Moriarty’s voice was just the slightest bit threatening and the  
other two men could practically feel the room chill as Moriarty’s “serious voice” darkened the  
mood.  
“Master,” Sherlock hesitated. “Do you think you could give me a case to solve?” Moriarty’s face  
grew even darker and Sherlock began panicking.  
“Actually, nevermind, sorry I even mentio-” Moriarty cut him off.  
“Are you bored, pet? Do I not provide you with enough entertainment? Am I not already too good  
you?” Sherlock cringed, inwardly cursing himself for being so stupid. Moran shifted in his seat  
slightly, wanting so badly to leave but knowing his boss wouldn’t permit it..  
“Yes, I mean- no? Master, please, I’m sorry,” Sherlock’s heart grew heavy with fear. Moriarty  
stood suddenly, making Sherlock scurry to move out of his way. He began undoing his belt and  
Sherlock began trembling. It was stupid of him to ask anything of Master. Master was good to  
him. Master was kind. Master took care of him.  
“Come here, pet,” Moriarty curled his finger ominously. Sherlock, trembling as one would during  
an earthquake, tentatively crawled toward his Master. It was better to obey than to try to escape  
the punishment. Sherlock stopped just at Moriarty’s feet and assumed the position he always did;  
on his knees, leaning on his elbows with his arse in the air. He shrieked as the rough leather was  
brought down on his bare bottom with alarming force.  
“Thank you, sir. May I have another?” Sherlock automatically said.  
“Who am I to deny my pet anything? He can get anything he wants!” Moriarty exclaimed,  
slapping Sherlock again.  
“Thank you, s-sir. May I have another?” His arse burned but Sherlock had kind of developed an  
immunity to such pain. It was Moriarty’s anger that he feared, not the belt.  
Ten minutes and twenty-five painful lashes later, the three were back at the table (well, the table  
and the floor, anyway) and had resumed eating. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. Or,  
that was what Sherlock had to tell himself.  
“I can personally guarantee that whatever Moriarty has threatened you with can and will be  
doubled if you don’t cooperate,” John pressed his gun deeper into the criminal’s neck, forcing his  
head back against the stone wall aggressively. “Now, tell me where he’s keeping Sherlock  
Holmes.” The criminal gulped in fear as his beady eyes darted from the army doctor to the gun.  
John’s face was contorted in rage and hopelessness as he willed himself not to pull the trigger just  
yet.  
“Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,” the man finally gasped. “But you need to promise you’ll kill me after I  
do.” John’s grip softened slightly as he watched despair drown the man’s irises in blackness.  
“Why would I do that?” John was fighting to keep his Captain voice steady, but he could feel the  
slightest traces of emotion creeping into his hard-fought stoicism. He knew where Sherlock was.  
They would be able to find him.  
“Because if I rat Jim Moriarty out, he’ll find me and he’ll do much worse things,” the poor man’s  
voice was filled with such desperation and fear that John let go of his collar and took a step back,  
although he kept his gun trained on him.  
“Fine,” John agreed, ever so grateful that his hand was steady and that his tremor was stagnant for  
the moment.  
“John,” Mycroft and Lestrade said in unison. They had been standing behind him throughout the  
entire interrogation. It was due to the combined information and manpower supplied by the couple  
that John was able to track the man down. Apparently, he was a close enough member of  
Moriarty’s inner circle that they were assured of his having vital information.  
“What?” John didn’t even turn around, but kept his cold eyes locked on the other man’s.  
“You can’t kill this man,” Mycroft said, leaning on his umbrella with the apparent ease of a man  
who was discussing the weather rather than a possible homicide.  
“I’m not leaving him to the mercy of Jim Moriarty, either,” John didn’t dare take his eyes off his  
informant. He would do whatever it took to find Sherlock. Anything.  
“I can place him in witness protection and-” Mycroft tried to explain but the criminal cut him off.  
“No, please, he’ll find me,” he pleaded. “It doesn’t matter what protection you have, he’s going to  
get to me. You have to kill me.” Greg and Mycroft shared a look, saying all that needed to be said  
with their eyes. Mycroft sighed.  
“Oh, the leg work it will take to clean this up,” he complained to himself. Greg grinned in spite of  
himself, never ceasing to be amazed by the sheer laziness of his British Government-controlling  
boyfriend.“Very well. Tell us what you know,” Mycroft said, taking a step toward the criminal.  
“Sherlock is being kept just outside London in a small farming community in Canterbury,” the  
criminal confessed quickly. “Fifty kilometers east of the city center, in an abandoned house in the  
middle of nowhere. Six guards, including Sebastian Moran.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, his  
eyes sinking into that vacancy Greg and John recognized as the signature Holmes look for deep  
thought.  
“He’s telling the truth,” Mycroft’s eyes swept over the trembling form of the man. Lestrade sighed  
as he placed a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The shit Sherlock must be going through, he  
thought.  
“Kill him, John,” Mycroft commanded, his voice cold and detached as it usually was. Of course  
the Iceman wouldn’t be fazed by ordering John to commit murder. He watched as the army  
doctor’s hand trembled and a tear slipped from his cheek. With a sigh, Mycroft took the gun from  
his hand and, without a word, sent a bullet flying into the criminal’s head. He handed the gun  
back to John without so much as a grimace and pulled out his phone, hitting the first available  
speed dial button.  
“Anthea?” Mycroft spoke into the receiver. “I need you to come discreetly dispose of the body.  
302 Westminster Lane. Thank you.”  
John, Mycroft, and Greg all took a last glance at the dead man and silently turned back to the car  
in which they had driven in order to catch the criminal. John had tears streaming down his face,  
and even Mycroft couldn’t tell if they were from joy or sadness.  
“John, go home and gather everything you might need for a three-day trip. Remember to bring  
your guns and spare ammunition for them,” Mycroft commanded. “Gregory and I will return to  
our flat and do the same. We will be by to pick you up in half an hour.” John nodded as he  
stepped out of the car and onto the pavement. He watched as the couple sped off and wiped his  
tears before unlocking the flat door. \  
He heard a gun click behind him as the door swung shut. Fear immediately swelled in his heart as  
he turned around to face the gunman, his hands raised above his head.  
It was Mary.Chapter 11  
“Mary? Wha-?” John was shocked, to say the very least, to find his wife holding a gun that was  
aimed at his heart. “What are you doing?”  
“My job,” Mary said. John’s eyes traveled from the gun to her eyes, which were blank and vacant,  
an uncanny characteristic shared with none other than…  
“Jim Moriarty,” Mary said. “Finally figured it out, have you, John?” Her words were harsh and  
cold, laced with a venom very unlike the softness and delicacy John usually associated with his  
wife. “You should have read that flash drive.”  
“You could-” John forced himself to swallow the vomit that was steadily climbing his throat.  
“You could at least explain why you’re going to kill me.” John’s eyes traveled further down to  
find that Mary’s pregnant stomach, which was significantly less pregnant than it should have been.  
“And why you’ve decided to stop being pregnant,” John added.  
“Go outside, get in the car, and we’ll have ourselves a nice little chat before I take you to your  
new Master,” Mary commanded, not lowering her steady arm. John calculated the odds of him  
being able to subdue her and grab the gun, but the chances were increasingly bad. He was a  
doctor, she an assassin. He was truly and tremendously fucked. He reached into their bowl of  
keys, fished out the car key, and walked out the front door with a gun poking at his back.  
“I’m driving,” Mary declared, taking the keys from her- well, her not-husband. John gave them up  
willingly, unsure if he’d even be able to drive in his state of anxiety. He stared longingly at the  
house that he had thought was theirs, the house they were meant to raise a child in. He ignored the  
awful churning in his stomach as he strapped himself into the passenger seat.  
“Explain,” he said as Mary drove out of their driveway and onto the street, where she turned and  
started on the route that took them out of the city. She shot him a look of frustration and rolled her  
eyes but nevertheless began to speak.  
“I work for Jim Moriarty. I have all my life. He and I met when I found out he was planning to kill  
Carl Powers and helped him perfect his plan.” John thought he was going to be ill that very  
second, but he forced himself to remain somewhat stoic as he listened to the duct tape holding his  
life together being ripped off.  
“I’m his second-in-command. He needed someone to watch you after Sherlock ‘died’ and since he  
had to be abroad for a considerable amount of time, he sent me to seduce you and gain your trust.”  
“And the baby?” John croaked, fighting back tears in futility. It seemed like every prominent  
figure in his life was either trying to kill him or trying to exploit and manipulate him, and Mary  
had done both.  
“Jim knew you wouldn’t stay around after he’d taken Sherlock, so he had me drop hints at the  
wedding so he’d deduce that I was pregnant. I just had to wear pads around my waist, request  
weird food, and buy bigger clothes. I never let you see the sonograms or come to the meetings,  
and yet you still never caught on. I don’t know why Sherlock keeps you around,” Mary said  
scathingly, taking a turn down a street that took them onto a highway.  
“So we’re going to Jim and Sherlock now. Why? Why would he show me his hiding place?”  
John asked, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the door handle to abate the fear and vomit  
that continued to bubble in his stomach.“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” Mary deadpanned. John was about to inquire further but he  
didn’t think he could handle it. Mycroft will find us. Mycroft will find us, John thought, closing  
his eyes and trying to focus on happy thoughts.  
“Mycroft won’t be able to find you,” Mary read John’s thoughts as easily as Sherlock used to.  
“You’re being taken to the safe house for maybe half an hour before you, Sherlock, Jim, and your  
old friend Sebastian get on a plane and drop of the grid for a couple years.”  
“Why are you telling me all this?” Was the only thing John could think to ask. He had felt fear in  
Afghanistan. He had felt fear when he got shot and nearly bled out in a medic van. He had felt  
fear when Sherlock threw the damn phone away on that damn rooftop. Now? Well, now he was  
terrified.  
“Well, you are my husband,” Mary said facetiously. John cringed, making Mary laugh maniacally.  
He turned his head toward the window, so utterly helpless and alone. He was genuinely out of  
options. The one thing keeping him from taking the gun from Mary’s jacket and putting a bullet in  
his brain was Sherlock. He had been kept with Moriarty for nearly two months, and he needed  
John now more than ever. John would not let Sherlock face another two years of torture, at least,  
not without him. They were stronger as a pair, more focused when put together. They would pull  
through this.  
John, in spite of his fear and anger and disbelief, fell asleep as the silence of the car and steadiness  
of the country roads lulled him into a doze. Mary kept driving for five or six hours, only ever  
stopping for gas after sneakily infiltrating the security system via her phone. Jim Moriarty chose  
his allies very carefully, and even at the age of 11, Mary had passed every single one of his tests.  
She was a sociopath herself, she was just better at hiding it. She looked at John as she parked the  
car, not a sliver of remorse or emotion in her entire body. She grabbed him roughly by the  
shoulder and shook him awake just as the sun was starting to rise. John awoke with a gasp, going  
from one nightmare to another as dreams faded into reality. He looked out his window to find a  
depressing little abandoned shack that was quite literally in the middle of nowhere. He forced  
himself to put on a cold, detached demeanor as he opened the door and stepped out. Any trace of  
sleep in his system was expelled as Mary snapped cuffs around his wrists and pushed him toward  
the house. Dread weighed heavy in his gut as he approached Moriarty’s hideaway. As badly as he  
wanted to see Sherlock, he just as badly wanted to turn and sprint in the other direction. Of course,  
the gun pressed to his back complicated that plan.  
Mary opened the door, quickly led John through a kitchen where he saw just a few takeout boxes  
scattered about, and brought him into the sitting room. A dark shadow of a man smoking a  
cigarette was barely recognizable in the darkness, as the only light filtering through was from a  
tiny bit of space between two curtains. A glow of orange light illuminated the features of a  
grinning Jim Moriarty. Mary turned on the lights and John blinked the surprise from his eyes as  
they were assaulted by the unexpected flash. Regaining his composure, John was able to clearly  
see Moriarty, who was easing back in a leather chair, much like a king on his throne. Behind him,  
wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt and running shorts that displayed his calf muscles, was Sebastian  
Moran. John forced himself to swallow his emotion as he was once again brought into the  
presence of his once-best-mate-from-the-army. Moran looked so comfortable, so like himself, that  
John was sick to his stomach. There once was a time when Sebastian Moran fought for his  
country and served out of the nobility of his heart, and now he was Jim Moriarty’s right hand man.  
John averted his eyes and focused them directly on Moriarty, who put his cigarette out in a crystal  
ashtray.  
“Hello, Johnny-boy!” He exclaimed, his dark Westwood suit and dead brown eyes making him  
look like a villain right out of a James Bond movie.“Where’s Sherlock?” John demanded. He wasn’t in the mood for Moriarty’s theatrics.  
“Oooh, right down to business, are we?” Moriarty cooed, an arrogant, cold smirk on his face. “We  
observe manners in this house, Johnny. I wouldn’t want to have Sebby punish you when we’re  
just getting acquainted!” Jim tilted his frown in mock thought. “Actually, I would. Do carry on  
being so rude, Dr. Watson, all the more entertainment for me.” Sebastian chuckled, crossing his  
arms across his chest in what was a not-so-subtle attempt to flex his muscles to intimidate John.  
Needless to say, John cursed himself for not keeping in better shape after the army.  
As much as he wanted to, he didn’t respond or even react to Moriarty’s threat. The man wanted to  
get a rise out of him, and if John could deny him that and maybe stall a little bit, Mycroft might be  
able to find him before Moriarty was able to escape with him and Sherlock.  
“I do believe you’re already familiar with Sebby,” Moriarty said, unfazed by John’s silence.  
“So nice to see the civilian life is suiting you, John,” Sebastian mocked. “Seeing as the army life  
didn’t really agree with you.” Moriarty chuckled at that, so he beckoned Sebastian forward and  
spun around in his chair to bring him into a light kiss. Well, it was intended to be a light kiss, but  
soon they were shamelessly making out with Sebastian practically sitting in Jim’s lap.  
“He was a slut in the army too, if you were ever unsure,” John said, unable to resist the urge  
within him to resist Moran and Moriarty with all of his might. Moran stood up, staring at John  
with anger, but Moriarty leaned back in his chair and fixed John with a look of slight amusement.  
“Can I kill him, Boss?” Sebastian clenched his fists.  
“No, Tiger,” Moriarty breathed. “But feel free to let loose a little bit. I know how much you’ve  
hated being cooped up here. Have a field day.” John’s breath caught in his throat as Sebastian  
smirked and started toward him with his fists raised.

  
When John awoke, he had forgotten where he was. He raised his head slightly, expecting to find  
himself back at his flat in his bed, only to discover that he had been roughly deposited on the  
couch of Moriarty’s safe house. As he regained his senses, the next thing he registered was the  
immense pain he felt as he tried to sit up. He cried out in pain as the bruising in all his limbs  
became abundantly apparent. His innate doctor sense kicked in and he evaluated his injuries as  
well as he could without removing his blood-stained shirt. At least three of his ribs were broken,  
along with two fingers. He had a deep gash on his face that was still oozing blood, as well as a  
slight concussion. Those being the more serious injuries, he chose to ignore the billions of bruises  
and cuts that littered his entire body. He found he was barely able to sit up, as the pain caused him  
to scream and nearly lose consciousness. Judging by the freshness of his wounds and there being  
very little coagulation of dried blood, John estimated that he had been unconscious for about ten or  
fifteen minutes at the most.  
Alerted by John’s cry, Moran came strolling into the room with Moriarty at his heels. The blood  
stains on his knuckles and shoes were hardly comforting.  
“Ah, Johnny-boy!” Moriarty exclaimed, clapping his hands together like an excited child. “So  
happy to see you awake!” When John tried to retort, he found that the dryness of his throat  
prevented it and he coughed into his hand. Droplets of blood dotted his palm. Shit, he thought.  
“Aww, he’s bweeding,” Moriarty cooed in a mocking tone. John seethed internally, fixing him  
with a glare that would send any ordinary person running for the hills. Jim just laughed.  
“I’m afraid this is what happens when you’re rude to me, Johnny,” Moriarty crossed his arms. He  
might have looked intimidating standing alone, but seeing as he was several inches shorter than  
Moran, who was by his side, he just looked like the type of guy John and his mates used to pick  
on in the locker room. John stifled a chuckle as he fought to keep a cold demeanor on his face.  
“Where is Sherlock?” He croaked, coughing up more blood as he forced the words out of his  
cracked throat.  
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you until you’re nicer to me,” Moriarty mocked, sticking out his lower lip  
and pouting. John sighed in exasperation.  
“I don’t know what you-” John coughed. “-Want from me.”  
“Well, to start off, I am your Master,” Moriarty said. “And you’re my new pet.”  
John wanted so badly to tell Moriarty to go fuck himself, but he needed to know that Sherlock  
was alright. He needed to see him.  
“Fine,” it took all of John’s strength to avert his gaze from Moriarty’s. “Master.” The pain in his  
body was made meager in comparison to the burning humiliation John felt in his gut. This is for  
Sherlock, he told himself. Sherlock did this, I can do it too. I can do it for him. Moriarty’s face lit  
up in pure delight. He clapped sarcastically.“Come in here, pet,” he yelled, ceasing his arrogantly facetious applause. John waited with bated  
breath as slowly, Sherlock tentatively emerged from within the bedroom. He withheld a gasp as  
his eyes were automatically drawn to Sherlock’s worn leather collar, and then to the array of scars  
on his back. Cigarette burns littered his entire body, as did deep scars and bruises. John actually  
did gasp as Sherlock caught his eye. His eyes, once bright and brimming with cleverness and  
intelligence, were blank and empty. They were like a black void, trying to consume John and  
swallow him in their darkness. As soon as he saw John, however, Sherlock's eyes regained a hint  
of their former sparkle. He, for a second, looked like he was going to say something, but he  
withered under Moriarty's harsh stare, and instead kept crawling until he stopped at knelt at his  
Master's feet. There he remained, the very opposite of what John had always known and loved  
him for; he was timid, quiet and withdrawn, submissive and subservient. John struggled to gather  
his thoughts as he just kept his eyes locked on the broken Sherlock Holmes.  
"Sherlock," John whispered, unable to bring himself to say anything more. He was in too much  
shock to even fathom the words he would say, despite having practiced them every night since  
Sherlock was abducted. Expecting a response, John was shocked when Sherlock didn't even stir  
or give any indication that he had even heard him. Moriarty grinned and reached a hand down and  
starting petting Sherlock. He was fucking petting him. It was wrong, it was disgusting, and John  
felt tears spring in his eyes as he saw Sherlock lean in to the touch. He had been deprived genuine  
human contact and love and warmth that he actually mistook Moriarty's possessiveness as  
affection.  
"Stop," John said, bringing his eyes back up to Moriarty's. His eyes were blank like Sherlock's,  
but underneath their apathy was a fire that raged like none other. His passion, his very being, was  
fueled by suffering and the pain of others. John felt sick to his stomach as those brown eyes bore  
into his blue and sucked the very life out of him.  
"What was that, Johnny?" Moriarty placed a hand behind his ear in mock deafness. He spoke  
condescendingly and sarcastically, but John could hear the threat that lay underneath. He had no  
idea where he summoned the courage, but he managed to stand.  
"Get your fucking hands off him," John growled, trying so very hard to ignore the dull anguish  
that was pervading his entire body and seeping into his brain. He didn't care what he had to go  
through in order to do it: He was going to save Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty roughly retracted his  
hand from his pet's hair, causing Sherlock to jerk. He strode over to John and, without a moment's  
hesitation, drove a small but nevertheless powerful fist into his ribs. John screamed in utter agony  
as his entire torso was set ablaze with the fire emanating from his broken ribs. He felt as though  
his entire world was growing dark as stars flashed before his eyes and the pain threatened to  
consume him, but he fought off the bliss of unconsciousness. He had to remain intact, for  
Sherlock's sake.  
As soon as he heard John scream, Sherlock turned his head to watch his doctor fall to his knees  
and struggle to regain his breath. John coughed and sputtered on his hands and knees for a few  
seconds before Moriarty drew his leg back and kicked him with merciless force. John heard and  
felt another rib crack as Moriarty's leather dress shoe drove the breath from his lungs and  
effectively replaced it with unbearable pain. He crossed his arms over his stomach in an attempt to  
protect himself, but Moriarty just ducked under them and delivered another blow directly to John's  
gut.  
"Please, Master," Sherlock implored. "Please, stop." Moriarty looked up for a moment, leaving  
John on the verge of passing out, with a stunningly calm look on his face.  
"Would you rather it was you, pet?" Moriarty asked, making sure to trod on John's fingers as he  
strode back over to his pet. Sherlock looked at the weeping form of John Watson and summonedthe last few ounces of courage he possessed.  
"Yes," he said. Moriarty looked shocked, to say the very least, but he did not hesitate to punch  
Sherlock directly in the jaw, causing his head to jerk to the side. John, somewhere in his hazy  
mind, registered the sound of knuckles hitting skin, and looked over to see Sherlock getting beaten  
to a pulp. For him.  
"Moriar- Master," John corrected himself. "Please, stop. I don't care what you want to do to me,  
just don't touch him." John spat more blood onto the carpet, wheezing and coughing as each  
breath expanded the bruises on his ribs and caused a flare of pain to ignite in his torso.  
It was agony, it was Hell, but it was to protect Sherlock Holmes. John had long since admitted to  
himself that he would take a bullet for Sherlock, and if now was his time to do so, he would gladly  
surrender himself to the mercy of Jim Moriarty in order to save his best friend, the only person he  
had truly loved.Chapter 13  
"How very cute," Moriarty cooed, walking back over to John with an evil glint in his eye. "The  
army doctor surrenders himself to save his best friend once again." Moriarty looked for a moment  
like he was going to strike John, but instead he just pulled a chair from the makeshift dining table  
and sat down.  
"On any other day you would both be punished for your insolence," Moriarty casually examined  
his pristine fingernails. "But I'm afraid it will have to wait until we land in another continent."  
Funnily enough, John's first thought wasn't oh no or even we're so screwed. No, the first thought  
that came to mind was John four-continent Watson. Has a nice ring to it.  
"Sebby," Moriarty called, causing the sniper to jerk to attention instinctively. "Be a dear and start  
loading the car with my bags. Shan't be but a moment so feel free to wait outside."  
"Yeah, Boss," Sebastian nodded in obedience and strode into the bedroom, returning a moment  
later laden down with at least seven designer luggage bags. He appeared astoundingly unburdened  
by the weight and casually strolled out of the tensely silent room, closing the front door behind  
him.  
"Mycroft will find us before you get anywhere," John threatened, trying to disguise his wheezing  
and pain behind false bravado. Moriarty saw right through his facade, however, and John felt  
himself wither under the man's analytical gaze. John could practically feel his wounds begin to  
burn as Jim surveyed him and undoubtedly found all the parts that hurt the most.  
"I'm sure you'd like to hope that Mycroft is capable of such, but I'm so regretful to inform you that  
there is no means by which he could find us," Moriarty replied. "Even if he does know my  
location, which I'm sure he does by now, he too is burdened by the agonizing slowness of  
transportation." Moriarty's words confirmed what John already knew in his heart: They were truly  
and tremendously fucked.  
"Now, Johnny-boy, if you would care to accompany Shezza and myself to the car awaiting us, we  
do have a schedule to maintain." Moriarty stood from his chair and snapped his fingers at Sherlock  
like he was a dog. Sherlock raised his bowed head and gave John the opportunity to see his  
rapidly swelling eye. Hues of green and purple tinged the span of eyebrow to cheekbone.  
Moriarty reached down and stroked Sherlock's bruise tenderly.  
"Come along, pet," he commanded, tucking a finger under Sherlock's tight collar and pulling  
slightly. Sherlock, after just a second's hesitation, dropped to his hands and knees and began  
crawling toward the door. John stayed still, having fallen into deep thought. Moriarty sighed in  
exasperation.  
"We could do this conscious or drugged, Johnny, what would you rather it be?"  
"Leave Sherlock here," John quietly said, trying to convince himself that his plan would work and  
that, if it did, he was strong enough.  
"Pardon?"  
"You've had your fun with him, Moriarty. You want a new toy to play with and break? Take me,  
and I swear I'll come quietly and willingly. Leave Sherlock here so Mycroft will find him, and  
we'll be long gone to the continent of your choice. Do what you will with me, but please, please,  
just let him go." John tried to look as determined as possible but really, he was trying not to breakdown. It was not the act of sacrificing himself for Sherlock that was upsetting him (Sherlock had  
done the exact same for him), but it was the knowledge that surrendering himself meant never  
seeing Sherlock again. Ever since Sherlock had been abducted, John had dreamed about storming  
into the abandoned warehouse where he was being kept and shooting Moriarty right in the heart.  
He had imagined a perfect little ending where he and Sherlock lived happily ever after in 221B  
and he helped to heal him and they got married and left all their pain behind them. This wasn't his  
fairy tale ending, but it was still a way to save Sherlock. That was all that mattered. That was all  
that had ever mattered.  
Moriarty stroked his chin in thought, but before he could speak, Sherlock cried out.  
"John, you can't do this for me," he said, crawling around Moriarty to get to him. Moriarty looked  
for a moment like he was going to block Sherlock's path, but he did love a good heartbreak, so he  
let the little display of theatrics continue.  
"You did it for me, Sherlock," John replied, tearing up as his eyes surveyed the broken form of the  
detective. He reached a hand out and lightly placed it on Sherlock's, intertwining their fingers.  
"I can't let you. I've been here a long time, I'm used to it. You're not," Sherlock's ice cold eyes  
were slowly beginning to melt under the warmth and fiery passion that emanated from John's  
sapphire blue ones.  
"Sherlock, I can't. You've taken enough bullets for me. You're going to go home, Mycroft is  
going to take care of you, and you can go back to your old life. Solving crimes and doing  
experiments in the kitchen." John tried to muster a smile but his trembling lower lip was the final  
chip of his facade that had fallen away. Under all the confidence and the bravery that was John  
Watson, lay a broken man. A broken man trying to save another.  
"I don't want my old life. I want ours," Sherlock cried. Tears were rapidly falling down his  
hollowed cheeks and dripping onto their joined hands. Before he could be stopped and taken  
away and tortured for the rest of his life, John did something bold. John did something he had  
always wanted to do but could never admit he had the courage to do. He leaned forward and  
kissed Sherlock. He kissed him and Sherlock kissed back and even though they both tasted of  
blood and tears there was a fiery undercurrent of love and affection that simply overpowered the  
pain and emotion. It was Heaven, but it couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds before  
Moriarty came over and pushed them away from each other. He was seething.  
"I'm afraid that's enough of the theatrics for now," he growled. He grabbed Sherlock by the collar  
and yanked him back, choking him. He did not release his grip on the collar even as Sherlock  
began to gasp for air and start kicking at him. John's rage was awoken and the severe pain in his  
torso was soon lost to anger as he stood and tackled Moriarty to the floor. The two were nearly the  
same height and weight but John had more muscle than Moriarty and he was able to pin the  
smaller man's arms beneath his knees as he settled his weight on his chest.  
"Sebastian!" Moriarty yelled. The front door was opened in an instant and Moran came running  
in. It took him a moment's realization before he glared and ran at John. He pushed him off  
Moriarty and helped his boss to his feet. Sherlock found John again and the two were left sitting  
on the floor before Jim and Sebastian, looking like two wayward children before their strict  
parents.  
"Should I beat them, Boss?" Moran asked, already clenching his fists in preparation. Moriarty  
looked at the gold watch on his wrist and frowned.  
"No, it'll have to wait. Just get them in the car. Now!" Moriarty barked, starting toward Sherlock  
as Moran came at John. The click of a gun left them all dead in their tracks, and the click ofanother caused them to straighten up. Then came another. And another. Moriarty and Moran  
turned to face Mycroft and Greg, who had brought with them what seemed like the entirety of  
Scotland Yard.  
"I've come to collect Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Mycroft calmly said, pointing his gun  
at Moriarty's heart.  
"Shit," Moran muttered.  
"Mycroft Holmes," Moriarty calmly said. "How nice of you to stop by our humble abode."  
"Put your hands in the air, you sick fuck," Greg says, taking the safety off his gun with an audible  
click. Moriarty chuckled, not moving a muscle.  
"Do put your dog on a leash, Mycroft," he sneered. "It does wonders for the naughtier pets," he  
waved a nonchalant hand in Sherlock's direction. Mycroft followed his hand with keen eyes,  
nearly gasping at the sight of his emaciated brother. Sherlock was clad only in a ratty pair of  
boxers, and that left a lot of injuries to find. Mycroft's eyes scanned Sherlock's chest, which was  
scarred with fingernail scrapes, his bullet hole created by a certain traitor, as well as countless  
bruises and cuts. Mycroft could not see much of his back, but he was assured by the way that  
Sherlock moved that his back was tender.  
"Here's how this is going to work," Mycroft said as he turned his attention back to Moriarty. "I  
will take my brother and Dr. Watson home, while Gregory and his men have you detained and put  
in prison for the remainder of your depraved life." Again, Moriarty chuckled.  
"Counter offer," he proposed lightly, not bearing any of the fear Moran obviously felt. He keenly  
watched his Boss, pretty confident that they were out of options. "I take your dear brother and his  
doctor, you never hear from us again, and I do not reveal to the press any of the information I am  
certain would put a government official such as yourself in a compromised position." Mycroft's  
face darkened but his hand did not falter as he mimicked his boyfriend and took the safety off his  
gun.  
"I'm afraid not," he said. "You see, contrary to popular belief, I care a great deal about Sherlock,  
and I will gladly take the repercussions of persecuting you over the consequences of allowing you  
to roam free." Moriarty frowned; he had miscalculated.  
"Perhaps another offer, then," Moriarty's voice was perhaps more cautious but still stunningly  
calm. "You take your brother and Johnny-boy, and Sebastian and myself find ourselves a nice  
remote island in the Carribean where we, as well as my criminal network, will stay off the grid. I  
don't have to waste my time destroying the British Government and breaking out of prison, and  
you don't have to deal with the mess or the paperwork and can be free to eat cake and fuck the  
Detective Inspector. Everybody wins," Moriarty gleefully proposed. Mycroft maintained his cold,  
detached demeanor, but the same could not be said for Greg, who was blushing furiously. John,  
while anxious and afraid, nearly giggled. Sherlock almost gagged.  
Mycroft's eyes grew furiously bright as his brain went into overdrive trying to process the offer. It  
took him all of two seconds to decide.  
"Very well," he said, lowering his gun and gesturing for his men to do the same. "I take my  
brother and John, and you get out of the UK. Should I hear the smallest blip of you or your  
network, I will not be so reluctant to imprison you a second time."Moriarty grinned. "Always lovely doing business with you, Mycroft." He turned around to  
Sherlock and winked. "Good bye, pet. It's been fun." John didn't know where Sherlock  
summoned the strength or the courage but he somehow managed to spit at Moriarty, staining his  
pant leg and his fine leather shoes.  
"Still a naughty boy," he wagged a finger with sarcastic malice. "I could have trained him to be  
complacent, you know," Moriarty turned back to Mycroft as he addressed him.  
"Mr. Moriarty and Mr, Moran, I suggest you leave the premises before I change my mind and  
decide to shoot you," Mycroft said coldly. Moriarty shrugged but said nothing more as he tugged  
on Sebastian's shirt and gestured toward the door. He blew Sherlock a final kiss as he made a  
dramatic exit and closed the door behind him. Seconds later, car doors were heard opening and  
closing, as well as an engine starting. Sherlock watched through the window as the car sped off,  
taking his Masters far away where they couldn't hurt him.  
The second he was sure that the threat was gone, Mycroft holstered his gun and ran (yes, he  
actually ran!) to his brother. While Sherlock stood and embraced his brother, John remained  
sitting, as his ribs forbade any and all movement.  
"John? John!" John faintly registered Lestrade calling his name. He raised his head and blinked  
the darkness from his eyes, clumsily taking the DI's hand and grunting as he was pulled to his feet.  
He was too weak to stand, however, and he soon fell forward into Greg's arms, unconscious.  
...  
Some time later, John opened his eyes to find he was in a hospital bed. The beeping of his  
machines increased in pace as his heart began to race. Where was Sherlock?  
Alerted by the sudden increase in the patient's heartbeat, a nurse came running into the room. She  
smiled sweetly at him as she poured a cup of water to soothe his nerves. John accepted the water  
in shaking hands.  
"Sherlock Holmes," he coughed. "Where is Sherlock Holmes?" He drank the water down in two  
seconds and she filled him another cup.  
"He was released just this morning," she said. "But he's still here, he refused to leave."  
"Can I see him?" Was obviously John's next question. She nodded and ducked out of the room to  
fetch him. As he waited, John instinctively began assessing his injuries; two or three broken ribs  
that were bandaged heavily in gauze, a broken ring finger that was in a splint, and a dull headache  
from the concussion. He surveyed the monitors for another minute before he heard a tentative  
knock on the door. Sherlock stood there in a loose-fitting shirt and sweatpants. He looked like he  
did when John found him in the crack house, just so much more... solemn.  
"John?" Sherlock timidly asked. John's heart broke to hear that broken version of Sherlock's deep,  
intelligent voice. It was like Moriarty had taken his Sherlock and left a different one in his wake. It  
was like, even though they had recovered him, Moriarty had still escaped with the crucial part.  
"Come here, Sherlock," John patted the side of his bed. He winced as Sherlock immediately came  
over, like a soldier following orders. He made a mental note to never phrase anything like an order  
ever again.  
"How are you?" John nervously asked, noticing how Sherlock failed to meet his eye and kept his  
head bowed.  
"I'm fine, Mas-" Sherlock shook himself slightly and took John by the hand. "I'm not okay, John."John could hear his monitors slowing as he took a deep breath to soothe his rapidly breaking heart.  
For Sherlock to admit that he wasn't okay was already a huge step for someone that was sure to be  
suffering abandonment, Stockholm Syndrome, and PTSD, but that didn't mean that was healed.  
Maybe he would never completely heal, but John swore to himself in that instant that it was his  
job to make sure that Sherlock was as close to okay as possible.  
"I know you're not, Sherlock," John sympathetically said, rubbing circles into the back of his hand  
with his thumb. "But no one would be okay after going what you went through." Sherlock and  
John could do little more than sit there in silence, John rubbing small circles into the back of  
Sherlock's hand. After about two minutes of strange silence, John did something impulsive.  
Don't do it, his brain said, he's not ready.  
Do it, his heart said, he needs it. You need it.  
John tentatively leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. "You're home now," he  
whispered.  
Sherlock leaned into John's touch, absorbing the smell and the stability and the warmth that was  
just John. He was hurt and broken and a part of him was still scared, but none of that mattered  
now that he had John. Sherlock swung his long legs up onto the bed and John shuffled to the side  
to make room. He smiled warmly as he lifted the blanket and Sherlock snuggled up to him. He  
wrapped a protective arm around him and although Sherlock was initially startled by the affection,  
he soon leaned into John's chest. He had to remind himself that this wasn't a cuddle that he had to  
earn by doing unspeakable things, this was a cuddle. This was John, and John would never take  
anything from him. He placed his hand on John's chest, just above his heart, and John laced their  
fingers together. Intertwined, Sherlock and John slowly fell into a conjoined rhythm of synced  
heartbeats and drifted into the first peaceful sleep either man had had in two months.  
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson got their well-deserved happy ever after. Well, suited to their  
version of happiness anyway.  
It had taken patience on John's part, not to mention extensive therapy and several  
teary heart-to-hearts, but  Sherlock Holmes returned to Scotland Yard with his boyfriend in tow.  
"Boyfriend" had become the official title after just a matter of months after Sherlock's return. John  
had been afraid that Sherlock would be too fragile and too broken to even consider having a  
romantic relationship with him, but he was wrong. It took a lot of time and effort, but Sherlock  
and John had gotten to a good place. In the early months after his capture, if john so much as  
raised his voice, Sherlock would drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness and mercy, and then  
they would start again at square one. John had to exercise every ounce of his patience, but his love  
and sympathy for Sherlock outweighed his frustrations with him, and they got through it.  
Sherlock, after two months, was once again comfortable wearing clothes and walking on two feet.  
Sherlock, after three months, was okay being left in the house alone for a few hours.  
Sherlock, after four months, had begun doing experiments again.  


"Oh look, the freak has returned," Anderson quipped. He had been promoted after Sherlock had  
been abducted, just as a result of sheer luck, but he had been demoted as soon as the detective  
returned. Needless to say, he was bitter.  
"Don't you dare call him that," John growled, seeing from his peripheral vision that Sherlock was  
close to tears.  
"Why shouldn't I? We all know it's true," Anderson replied with malice in his voice. John let go of  
Sherlock's hand and swung his fist at the man's face, connecting heavily with his nose. An audible  
crack was heard by everyone in the vicinity and, much to John's pleasure, Anderson shrieked like  
a little girl as he fell down on the pavement. Lestrade was alerted by the commotion and came  
running over.  
"John? What the hell are you doing?" Lestrade fumed, helping Anderson to his feet.  
"He called Sherlock a freak, Greg," John said, still clenching his fists until his knuckles were  
white. Lestrade's demeanor of concern was immediately replaced by anger.  
"Anderson, you've been told time and again that I won't have you causing problems," Lestrade  
growled, grabbing his employee by the blood-stained collar. "Sherlock Holmes is not a freak, he's  
three times the man you'll ever be. He's back on his feet when you probably would be balled up in  
a corner if you had to go through what he did. You're fired."  
"But-" Anderson stammered.  
"No buts," Lestrade cut him of . "Get out of my sight." He pushed Anderson away and strode  
over to Sherlock and wrapped him in a bear hug and whispered "you're not a freak, Sherlock."  
Sherlock, however, was still crying. Moriarty had always called him that.  
"i'm a freak, I'm a freak, I'm worthless," Sherlock stammered, falling to his knees instinctively.  
Officers around the scene were starting to stare but Greg waved them of angrily and they made a  
point of not looking at the detective.  
"Sherlock, look at me," John commanded. Sherlock obeyed immediately, locking eyes with the  
doctor.  
"You are not worthless, love," John said softly, coming down to his knees to see eye-to-eye with  
Sherlock. "You are beautiful, you are extraordinary, and you're the greatest man we've ever  
known." Lestrade nodded, placed a reassuring hand on the detective's shoulder, and started  
rubbing comforting circles into his back.  
"I love you, and I always will, Sherlock," John said, taking his boyfriend by the hands. "No one  
will ever hurt you or make you feel like nothing again. I will protect you, forever and always."  
john connected their lips in a soft but warm kiss. Sherlock kissed back, finding solace and truth in  
John's words.  
"In fact, Sherlock, I want you to know that I will always be here for you, so..." John's voice trailed  
of as he took the box out of his jacket pocket. it had been in there for months, and he had been  
building up the courage to actually use it, but he had always told himself that there needed to be  
an opportune moment. This seemed a good a time as any.  
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I love you with every fiber of my being. I can't promise that I'llalways be patient or calm, but I can promise that I will never hurt you. I will never take anything  
you don't want to give. I can promise that I will always love you. Will you marry me?" john asked.

 

....

 

John looked over Sherlock, happy that he seems to be coping especially since this particular victim had been beaten to death.

John shuddered as he remembered the submissive state he had found Sherlock in. Sherlock Holmes was not a submissive character, yet he found him broken and torn up inside.

Moriarty hasn't been heard of or seen in 4 months, which John prays to god is a good thing and that he stays gone, Sherlock wouldn't mentally survive that treatment again.

John looked over the body and tried to pace where he had seen this person before. The whole body suddenly twitched and spasmed knocking into Sherlock, making him grunt. An un-easy feeling filled John, this body should have been dead enough rigor mortis not to be taking affect anymore.

"Murdered with a cricket bat." Lestrade informed us, Sherlock shook his head as a confused look spread across his face, "thats what the witness said." Lestrade continued.

"This isn't dead." Sherlock announced, those words seemed to trigger something, the body was on its feet and the window was smash as a dark shape flew though it.

Then Moriarty walked in making Sherlock stiffen up.

"Miss me pet?" Moriarty greeted slyly as he walked around the room taking everything in.

John stepped forward as if to comfort Sherlock, but froze as he felt a gun pressed against his back.

"John how nice to see you again." Moriarty next greeted finally giving his attention to the ex-soldier 

"What do you want." Lestrade snarled, as John tried not to let the sinking feeling get to him.

"Well I want my pet back of course." Moriarty answered while rolling his eyes as if the answer should have been obvious, "I'm back to collect you pet," Moriarty sing-songed while skipping over to Sherlock. Lestrade deflated as he saw Sherlock's submissive stance.

"On your knees pet." Moriarty purred, Sherlock fell to his knees without protest. John and Lestrade realized that maybe sherlock wasn't as healed as they had originally thought.  

"Boss John has been naughty, I think he deserves to be punished." Sebastian drawled lazily.

Moriarty grinned and drew a gun pointing it at John,

"Don't want you following us now." He pulled the trigger shooting John in the knee, making him fall to the ground and watch helplessly as Sherlock was once more taken away from him.

Moriarty and Sebastian sat either side of Sherlock, in a BMW Sherlock watched as the scenery flew past.

"Sheeeeerlock!" Moriarty sang gleefully, "did you miss me." he pouted pitifully.

"Of course M-master." Sherlock discreetly removed his engagement ring, and pushed it out the window. Sherlock sprinted through his Mind-palace searching for the rules and his training as Moriarty's pet.

"Well pet, your back now and we're going somewhere they will never find us or at leas for the next few years they won't find us." Master explained excitedly.

I think we should celebrate." Mr Moran murmured his eyes darkening as he looked over Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes closed, as he open the cage to his submissive personality and locking the detective deep into the back of his mind-palace.

"Of course sir."

 

_~9 months later~_

  
_"_ Sorry John, we haven't got anything." Lestrade apologised profoundly.

_~14 Months later~_

"John stop this! We aren't going to find sherlock if you act like this!!" Molly screeched.

_~5 1/2 years later~_

"John we've found him!!" Mycroft exclaimed pulling John away from his latest conquest.

John's eyes widened as he pushed away Michel? George? He couldn't remember.

"Well lest go then." John screeched desperately. Mycroft nodded and lead me out to his limo before explaining.

"They are on a remote island, have been all this time. We were alerted to their presence when there was a shipwreck near by. Turns out they don't like unexpected visitors."

John nodded along, even though he was imagining his hands around Moriarty's neck, squeezing the life out of him.

 

~ _three hours later~_  


John and Mycroft watched though security cameras to see Moriarty, petting Sherlock as he spoke with two men who were eyeing sherlock with dark eyes. 

"Do we have a deal gentlemen?" Moriarty asked his hand tightening in Sherlock's hair.

"Only if we get to play with your pet." One of the men demanded smugly.

Moriarty looked thoughtful for a second before leaning down and whispering into Sherlock's ear.

"Yes master." They heard Sherlock mutter, before standing and leading the men from the room.

There was silence before 2 gunshots rang out though the house.

Sherlock wondered back in covered in blood.

"Good boy Sherlock," Moriarty cooed, before drawing Sherlock in for a rough kiss, "Good boys get rewards."

 Moriarty took an unopened bottle of lube from his pocket.  
“Thank you, Master,” Sherlock replied.   
Moriarty spread the lube over his fingers and warmed them up in his other palm before sticking  
one into his pet. Sherlock winced slightly, but once Master started moving it around a bit and  
pushing further, Sherlock was able to relax his muscles and it made it much easier. Moriarty  
added another finger, making Sherlock wriggle out of discomfort. He eased his way into the ring  
of muscle, stretching and scissoring and pushing deep into the detective. His fingers brushed  
Sherlock’s prostate and the man groaned involuntarily. Moriarty grinned in satisfaction as he  
added another finger and began probing the dense mass of tissue.   
Moriarty generously lubed up his rapidly swelling cock.  He placed his tip  
at Sherlock’s entrance and allowed his pet just a moment of preparation before he pushed in.   
Sherlock groaned as Moriarty slid his way past his ring of muscle and winced as a slight burn  
arose from the friction and the stretch. He was grateful for the lube and the preparation, and it  
was the knowledge that this could be much worse was what kept him compliant. Once Moriarty  
was completely sheathed inside his pet, he began to move. Sherlock gasped as the burn grew  
worse, but calmed as soon as Moriarty was able to hit his prostate. The consulting criminal grinned and adjusted  
Sherlock’s hips so as to hit his prostate every thrust.  
The room was filled with panting and the sinful sound of skin slapping against skin as Moriarty  
picked up the pace. Sherlock, began to move his hips in synchronization. He wanted to touch his throbbing erection so badly, but Master had made it abundantly clear that it was his job, and his job only to bring  
Sherlock off . Moriarty took Sherlock’s cock in hand and began pumping mercilessly. Sherlock  
groaned, his voice having gone done way too many octaves. That sound alone drove Moriarty  
over the edge, and he was consumed by orgasm as he filled Sherlock to the brim. He kept  
pumping sloppily and rode out a few more thrusts as he came of his high. Meanwhile, Sherlock  
was fighting of his orgasm with every fiber of strength he had ever possessed.  
Master- I’m close,” Sherlock groaned. “Please, can I come?” Moriarty leaned down and  
captured his pet’s mouth in a fierce kiss.  
“Come for me, pet,” he commanded, lust heavy in his voice. Sherlock felt his balls tighten and his  
stomach muscles contract as his orgasm drowned him in white-hot bliss. He barely registered the  
burn of his Master exiting him as euphoric pleasure consumed him. He cried out as thick white  
ropes of cum shot out of him. When the last traces of bliss left him and he opened  
his eyes, Sherlock found his Master cleaning him of with a flannel.  
“Thank you, Master,” he whispered, all the strength drained from his body. Moriarty swooped  
down and kissed him tenderly, his tongue tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip.  
“You’re welcome, pet,” he whispered.

John and Mycroft sat in slight shock over what they had just witnessed, not hearing the two men creep up behind them.

John blinked his eyes into focus to see, Moriarty glaring down at him with Sherlock's head in his lap.

"Well well look who found us." Sherlock sleepily rose his head looking towards John but no recognition was in his eyes.

"John Watson, couldn't you just leave us alone?" Moriarty asked exasperated, "I mean Sherlock's happy here, you were fucking to your hearts content, whats the problem?"

"Sherlock is not happy here!" John snarled, frowning when Mycroft didn't back him up

"I'm sorry John but Sherlock is truly happy here." Mycroft announced softly. 


End file.
